


And Their Hearts Are Guarded By Dragons

by runningondreams



Category: Avengers (Comics), Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pern Fusion, Angst, Cap_Ironman Big Bang, Community: cap_ironman, Dancing, Dragons, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pern (Dragonriders of Pern), Pining, telepathic dragon bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 21:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16794799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: After an ambush by an unknown dragon and rider pair, T’ny searches for his dragon partner, Ferroth. In a desperate flight to prove Ferroth still lives he finds S’teve and Libereth adrift and injured from a battle he can hardly imagine existing: dragons fighting dragons. Together, S’teve and T’ny navigate tangles of time travel, villainy that challenges their most dearly-held truths, and the budding of new love.A getting-together Marvel 616/Dragonriders of Pern AU (no prior Pern knowledge necessary).





	And Their Hearts Are Guarded By Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2018 Cap-Iron Man Big Bang Challenge. I was lucky enough to work with two artists this year, kaitovsheiji and phoenixmetaphor, who both produced some fantastic images for this story. Thank you both so much for making such beautiful and vivid art for my scenes! Most of the art is a bit spoilery, so links to it will be in the text and in the end notes. Please check it out and tell them how awesome it is!
> 
> Many additional thanks to laireshi for beta, general cheerleading, and being an amazing soundboard as I fought my way through Pern and the general trials of novel-length fic-writing.
> 
> This fic was expressly written to be easily accessible to readers with zero knowledge of Pern. Readers who are familiar with Pern may find my version a little different than Anne McCaffrey's, but I haven't completely broken any particular lore beyond "only this gender and sexuality can impress this dragon." If you have questions about Pern (or my version of it in particular) I will be happy to answer them. A few canon Pern characters are mentioned in passing as historical figures, but none appear in this work. I have entirely avoided Pern's dragon-induced dub-con themes. All sex and kissing depicted in this work is explicitly consensual.
> 
>  **General warnings:** Red Skull and related eugenics themes, mentions of past domestic abuse, villain-related kidnappings and mistreatment of dragons and minor characters, 616 canon-typical violence levels. There is a one-sentence reference to suicide, but no one attempts it.

* * *

The day S’teve and his dragon finally locate R’skull’s lair is humid and partly cloudy, warm enough that S’teve sweats through the shirt under his leathers before he can finish his rough sketch of the weyr, its fortifications, and the guard flight-pattern. Libereth stays high as he works, dipping and swooping from one clear patch of sky to another, relying on the blue of his hide to evade detection. They’re still close enough to catch glimpses of the green and gold in the enemy riders’ flightgear, and S’teve makes sure to mark the height of the sun and the length of shadows, just in case they’re spotted and this moment in time becomes more crucial than it already is.

When the sketch is done they go _between,_ through a moment of utterly cold nothingness that leaves S’teve feeling clammy,and emerge high above their home Weyr at High Reaches.

Weyrleader Nik’las is waiting for them, and S’teve has hardly finished his report before the drums are calling out across the Weyr, spurring riders and dragons alike into action. For the first time in Pern’s history, the Weyrs organize to fly against dragons rather than Thread. Dragons leap into the sky with flashes of green, blue, brown and bronze, filling the air with the sound of eager roars and leathery wingbeats. S’teve just has time to fetch his lance and shield and eat a strip of dried fish before he and Libereth are back in the air, ready to go _between_ on Nik’las’ order. As alien as the idea of fighting another dragon is, it’s gotten easier in the face of R’skull’s fanaticism, his murderous rise to conquest, and his distinct contempt for blue and green dragons and their riders. The fact that most of his followers’ dragons seem both unable to communicate and happy to maul their brethren helps too. 

Libereth tenses in preparation, and then they’re off.

The jump _between_ is slightly longer than usual—to ensure the advantage, they’re sliding a quarter hour back in time as well as bypassing the necessary kilometers of ground—but only slightly. The High Reaches forces approach the lair from the Northeast, and S’teve notes Benden and Fort Wings sliding into position from the East and West. Telgar completes the ambush, circling in from the Southwest.

Taken by surprise, two of R’skull’s Wingleaders go down almost immediately, even as their alarm gong still rings in the air. One is taken prisoner with a net hobbling his dragon’s wings and one goes _between_ with a slash across his throat. The High Reaches forces hold strong as more enemies stream into the sky. Nik’las and Furith are as efficient and focused as S’teve has ever seen them during Threadfall, harrying R’skull and his great bronze dragon Onaputh with half the Wing while S’teve lurks with the other half above the cloud layer. He resettles his shield against his side, clutching his lance in his other hand. The insides of his gloves grow damp and slick as the sun beats down on them. 

_Now_ , Libereth relays, and they dive, a swarm of blues and greens dropping onto a group of penned browns and bronzes, unrelenting and searing as Thread itself. 

Mor’ta and E’ric on their greens take out another enemy brown dragon, and R’bel all but lands on R’skull’s closest bronze ally, forcing dragon and rider nearer the jagged mountain face. S’teve guides Libereth in a slingshot run, raking over Onaputh’s wings in one pass and then flipping underneath to attack the bronze’s underbelly. Libereth strikes hard with his back talons and Onaputh roars, giving chase as they twist away.

 _Nik’las says to tell you this wasn’t the plan,_ Libereth says, but S’teve can feel the thrill of satisfaction in his dragon’s mind. The smaller dragons had taken R’skull’s dismissal of their strengths in favor of their larger siblings rather personally. 

_So we’ll bring him back around_ , Steve tells him. _Keep as much height as you can so he’ll expect another dive_.

 _I want a cow for this_ , Libereth grumbles even as he stretched his wings out further for a corkscrew feint. _Two cows_.

 _Pull this off and you’ll have earned them_ , S’teve assures him. Libereth folds in all but the tips of his wings and twists back the way they’d come. S’teve, clinging low on his neck, gets a blurred glimpse of R’skull’s Thread-scored face as they shoot past.

 _Is he following?_ Libereth asks.

 _He is_ , Steve confirms. _Just a little farther._

Ahead of them Nik’las and the rest of the Wing blink _between_ , positioning themselves to drop on R’skull from four directions as soon as he’s back over the ambush point.

 _Just a little—_

Something hits them from below, hard enough to knock Libereth completely off course, something huge and gold and screeching with rage. Sarkith, and Ophelia riding her. The queen’s claws rake at Libereth’s shoulders and he screams, his mind whirling with panic and pain while S’teve tries to calm him down— _the ambush point, jump_ between _to the ambush point and we can retreat—_ and then R’skull and Onaputh are there too. For a moment the world is a thunderous whirl of blue and gold and blood-red bronze and then—

They’re _between_.

A normal trip _between_ takes only a few seconds. Long enough for a rider to cough three times. Sometimes less. Sometimes just slightly more, if they’re covering a great distance or slipping time. S’teve counts his heartbeats. Ten. Then twenty. Then thirty.

Nothing happens.

For a long, long moment, S’teve worries that R’skull has simply dropped them _between_ and left them there without a destination to return to, but Libereth assures him Sarkith and Onaputh are still with them. Then S’teve worries that they will _all_ be hung here, suspended in nothingness, forever. 

_Is this what happens when dragons die?_ he asks. He can feel Libereth’s uneasiness for a tense span of seven more heartbeats.

 _I don’t think so,_ Libereth says. _I think we’re . . . going somewhere._

 _Somewhere_ arrives with a riot of noise and light so bright it sears his eyes. S’teve grips frantically at his lance and sheild and the fighting straps on Libereth’s harness, trying for any sort of purchase he can muster. Libereth seems to be similarly disoriented, his wingbeats erratic. Something that’s half-growl-half-keening rumbles through his dragon’s throat and S’teve finds himself clenching his teeth. He feels unaccountably faint, and he fights to concentrate.

R’skull is there too. S’teve can hear his dragon roaring and manages to get his eyes open and focused long enough to make out the pair: R’skull’s Thread-scarred face, Onaputh’s burnished red-bronze hide. They dive, close and fast, too fast for Libereth to get away, and S’teve lashes out with his lance. He doesn’t connect, but something does hit _him_. Pain burns along his side. A flash of gold is all the warning he gets before Sarkith is on him again too, but Libereth is able to right himself and S’teve does connect this time, though not with the dragon’s shoulder as he’d expected. Ophelia’s hands clutch at her throat and her queen keens shrilly.

And then they’re gone. Blinked _between_. Forever. It’s a victory. Without a queen’s commanding voice, R’skull will likely find his troops harder to control. 

S’teve feels ill. His jaw and joints hurt, the ache and weakness in his limbs dragging ever-stronger. His side is a fiery blaze of pain, more than a minor injury would merit. His hand finds a knife handle sticking out from his leathers. The blade moves with every breath, cutting deeper.

Onaputh screams, rage and keening grief in the tone. He and R’skull wheel back toward them with murderous intent. S’teve looks for a landmark to mark a short jump and his thoughts grind to a halt. The rugged earth below is unmarked by either lair or battle. There’s no sign of Nik’las and the rest of the High Reaches forces, nor the other Weyrs or any of R’skull’s followers. The mountainside is brown and gray and black and bare of any sign of habitation or greenery, as if it’s been razed with fire.

The moment of distraction costs him. R’skull is on them again, his dragon’s size and position driving Libereth ever-closer to the mountain. Their own tactic, used against them.

 _The rendezvous point_ , he tells Libereth, picturing it clearly in his mind—high above the cloud level, where there will be no unexpected objects to run into. As soon as the picture is definite he throws his shield in R’skull’s face, a flash of copper and blue leather, and stabs at Onaputh’s front talons. The point sticks and the lance is yanked out of his hand, but the distraction works: Onaputh twists away in pain, and R’skull is momentarily blinded.

 _Now_.

Libereth jumps. S’teve counts his heartbeats: one, two, three, four—and they’re back. The cold is only the cold of a chill high above the clouds, and the sun shines bright and warm. There is still no sign of any other dragons in the sky.

_S’teve?_

It’s probably a bad idea to pull out the knife. His mother had told him that, years ago now. Somewhere under the layers of flight gear and padding and clammy, soaked-through undershirt, he’s bleeding. Pulling out the knife before a healer can stitch him up will only make things worse. 

Libereth is injured too, the scores on his shoulders moving with every wingbeat, green dragon blood dripping over silver muscle and blue hide. The pain is clear in his dragon’s mind, and exhaustion is settling on them both. No matter how strange his surroundings seem, no matter how close he is to taking down R’skull for good, he knows he needs to get them both to a healer, soon.

 _Home_ , he tells his dragon. _Take us home._

The dark chill of _between_ envelopes them again.

* * *

Between the sun on the waves, the ash in the air, the bright heat of dragonfire and the silvery flash of twisting Thread tendrils, T’ny can feel a headache settling in to stay. Five hours fighting Threadfall is enough for any rider and dragon under the best conditions, and these are not those. The tint on his goggles isn’t dark enough, but any darker and he’ll have to keep separate pairs for different times of day. It’s a problem for another time. He feeds Ferroth one last load of firestone and they swoop low to scorch a falling silver tangle before it can reach a patch of green on the clifface. Perhaps not the most vulnerable of locations, but T’ny has seen the pulsing gray node of Thread allowed to burrow and the sterile, dusty soil it leaves behind. Even one tendril of Thread is too much to risk so close to a Hold and its fertile farmland. 

As soon as he’s certain the curtain of hungry Threadfall has moved fully out to sea, falling to its death by water and feeding fish far from Hold walls and vulnerable green fields, he directs Ferroth to land for Lady Rumiko’s requested meeting. They touch down in Southern Boll’s colorful outer courtyard, chickens and late summer flower blossoms scattering before them, and T’ny takes a moment to check both himself and his dragon over for threadscore. The new ceramic tiles on his flight vest and Ferroth’s shoulders seem to have done their job well enough: he can find no injuries, and the red enamel finish isn’t even scratched. 

“You’re looking well, Weyrleader,” Lady Rumiko says from the cobblestone patio, and T’ny slides down Ferroth’s shoulder to greet her.

“It’s a pleasure to visit your hold, as always Lady Rumiko.” He offers a respectful nod, not quite a bow. The habits of hold and crafthall pleasantries still linger, despite six turns of riding a dragon and the change in status that means, and they had been close, once. He can tell by Rumiko’s smile that she appreciates the gesture at least. 

“The Wings should be making one last pass shortly,” he says, “and Jan has assured me any further Threadfall over your fishing grounds should end by twilight.” The Boll fishing boats will likely work through the night to secure the well-fed red fins and packtail. “How are your ground crews?”

“Only one minor injury so far, and no large pockets to worry about. The flamethrowers are all in good repair.” She smiles briefly. “It was on another matter I was hoping to speak with you today.”

Ferroth grumbles something about being hungry and T’ny shushes him— _we’ll go fishing later, I promise_ —trying to keep his expression neutral. The last three conversations he’s had with Lord and Lady Holders have been about the harshness of the recent heatwave and the impossibility of meeting their tithe commitments. If Southern Boll’s lush climate starts producing similar complaints it’s only a matter of weeks before the Weyr will run lean.

“We had begun preparing our first tithe of herds and goods for transport,” Rumiko continues, “and had intended to ask for dragon assistance again this autumn, that we might avoid losing any beasts on the cliff face, but two days ago . . . ” She pauses for a moment, closing her eyes and smoothing her hands over her headscarf. “Two days ago we suffered an attack. My guards report that a force of men fell upon them shortly after nightfall, at least ten of them, well-organized and armed. Three of my guards were killed, and two others wounded. The survivors suspected their attackers were holdless malcontents, a but a few also report hearing dragon wings and a full half of our beasts were taken without leaving a trail.” She pins him with a piercing stare that’s served her well though five turns of negotiations and ambitious young holders trying to take advantage of her inheritance. “As if they had been taken _between_.”

T’ny hesitates just a moment too long.

“You have a suspicion.” Rumiko’s expression sharpens.

“I do,” T’ny admits. “Though I should note that dragons tend to fare poorly, flying past nightfall. A watchwher is more likely.”

“A watchwher would not leave its post,” Rumiko replies, which is true enough. Certainly T’ny has never known one to travel _between_ without a blood-bound rider or mortal injury.

“May I see the site?” he asks instead of arguing.

Rumiko turns and points back, over the hold. 

“The paddock is on the other side of the ridge.” She pauses, as if about to say more, her hands twisting the patterns of her skirt out of shape.

“Ferroth and I would be happy to fly you there,” T’ny offers. “We can wait if you wish to grab a shawl.”

Rumiko nods agreement and T’ny scratches absently at Ferroth’s foreleg as they watch her stride back across the courtyard to the hold proper.

 _You’re worrying._ Ferroth lowers his head to let T’ny scratch his snout instead, one faceted eye glittering at him with interest. _Why?_

 _What makes a dragonrider steal?_ T’ny asks him. _What makes a rider kill? Who would risk their dragon like that?_ He can feel Ferroth shy away from the question. Morality and social mores are the realm of humans. A dragon doesn’t care where his food comes from, or who owns it. A dragon mourns the death of a friend for a few weeks, but then forgets. _Dragons don’t know what’s best for them_ , had been one of old Y’sen’s first lessons in the days after their Impression, Ferroth’s mind newly nestled snug and joyous against his own. _They can’t remember well, they can’t be alone, can’t take care of themselves. That’s your job,_ he’d said, and he’d poked Tony, as he still thought of himself then, right over his heart.

A dragon wouldn’t understand why stealing goods or killing holders was wrong. He’d do it simply because his rider wanted him to. But the rider . . . _The rider should know better_ , T’ny tells Ferroth. _One rider’s actions can mean a winter without food for an entire Weyr_.

Ferroth rumbles his disapproval. Adult dragons can forage anywhere, of course, feeding on fish and wild game if they really needed to. But the injured and the young cannot, and T’ny knows Ferroth is already feeling protective of the clutch on the sands, still weeks away from hatching. 

There’s more to it than food, of course. There’s politics, and trade agreements, and that ancient charter pact the Weyrs can never break: To ever and always rise to fight and protect the Holds when the Red Star looms in the sky and Thread falls to Pern, because a single strand of living Thread could ruin the entire continent were it allowed to burrow and propagate. But Ferroth won’t understand more than that fighting Thread is what dragons do, no matter how T’ny tries to explain. And he especially won’t understand T’ny’s fear that this theft, far as it is on the edge of Fort Weyr’s territory, might be T’ny’s own fault.

He has not made the life the holdless scratch out easy the last few turns, convicted criminals that they are. This wouldn’t be their first attempt to act against him, though it’s perhaps a more indirect method than usual. The prospect of a dragon’s assistance is more troubling. As far as he knows there’s only one dragonrider running loose from a Weyr who might be desperate enough to attack a hold, and T’ny had exiled that man himself. 

He hopes it’s not H’nek. The list of further punishments that can be leveled against a dragonrider after exile is short and nauseating. Jan’s healed; she seems happier, and T’ny is almost certain she’s been seeing P’dan lately. Better to let things lie, if he can. If H’nek isn’t already forcing his hand.

Lady Rumiko reappears and T’ny pushes aside such thoughts. She’s holding a long dirk as well as what passes for a heavy shawl in this climate, and he takes a mental inventory of his own weapons—belt knife and boot knife, both shorter than her dirk—and sighs. He hasn’t fought a true duel since he was Searched for Ferroth’s hatching, and his headache has combined with a sudden weariness to plague him further. Hopefully if someone shows up to make trouble they’ll be too in awe of the bronze dragon to try anything. He has no doubt someone who would steal from the Weyr has no respect for laws against dragonriders dueling.

 _Keep an eye out_ , he tells Ferroth. _And an ear and your brain. I want to know immediately if you sense another dragon over there._

 _It’s only Fort dragons here_ , Ferroth tells him, but T’ny sees the slow bored swirl in his eyes shift into attentive blues. 

_And go easy on the takeoff,_ T’ny reminds him _. I don’t think Lady Rumiko’s flown dragonback before_.

They fly overland, as slow and steady as Ferroth can manage to accommodate their passenger. Lady Rumiko sits stiffly, holding herself straight-backed and steady as best she can in harness, and T’ny winces in sympathy as they land even though she makes no noise of discomfort. A dragon is only comfortable transportation if you shift with its motions, and even then padded leathers make a world of difference. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had bruises tomorrow. 

A handful of men and women work at the edges of the paddock, stealing glances at the pair of them—and at Ferroth, of course—as they go about organizing a collection of crates, sacks and barrels. What’s left of the Weyr tithes, T’ny assumes.

“We moved the remaining herdbeasts further inland after the attack.” Rumiko sildes off Ferroth’s neck and gestures north, further from the ocean. “I am still balancing figures, but if we cannot retrieve any of the lost goods I believe we will be able to provide roughly half our usual tithe.” Seeing T’ny’s grimace she amends, “If the Weyr will accept a larger portion of undyed cloth and salt fish, we could perhaps make up to two thirds.”

Salt fish. Potato and packtail soup. All winter. He can almost taste the monotony of it. A diet so bland even the toughest wherry meat would be welcome variety.

“Let’s see what we can do here,” he stalls. _Anything_? He asks Ferroth.

_No._

He dismounts and marks a slow patrol along the paddock. There deep claw marks in the soil alongside the mess of hoof and boot tracks and other evidence of panicked animals. Several patches of smoothed ground are sites of possible dragon tail sweeps. A few darker patches hint at blood, though whether human or animal he has no way to know. 

“Any bodies unaccounted for?” he asks, circling the stains.

“If you are asking about the possibility of a spy, or betrayal from within, then no, Weyrleader. No hands have gone missing the past two weeks. I have been more careful with who I inform of schedule changes since this incident, but I have no reason to suspect my people. Of course, they might have killed their collaborator in the attack, but it would take some care, in a night as dark as that one.”

T’ny paces around the paddock. More claw marks. The sturdy stone fence has been reduced to rubble in one area. Smashed fruit and eggs have attracted trundlebugs and buzzing flies. It doesn’t make sense. Active flying at night is one of the easiest ways to get a dragon injured outside of Threadfall. Carrying off more than a pair of herdbeasts at once takes planning even in daylight. And the guards. Even with non-rider accomplices the coordination required would take careful timing. Maps, strategies. _Practice._

“Up there,” T’ny decides. He nods at a rising bluff in the near distance. From that point a dragon and rider would easily be able to track movements. “If they had a scout, rather than a spy, he would have watched from there.” He looks back to around the paddock and nods to himself. “Ferroth and I will hop up there and see if they left any sign.”

“And I will accompany you,” Lady Rumiko says, resettling her shawl.

“Are you certain? It will be faster if we can move _between_ ,” T’ny tells her. “We might be able to surprise any lingering scouts.”

“Then I will travel _between_ also,” she says, chin raised. Her hand closes firmly around her dirk hilt. T’ny wants to argue, they both know it, but he’s seen that determination in her eyes before and knows the fight would cost too much time. He won’t shame her by simply disappearing. 

She looks surprised when he starts unbuckling his flight jacket, but he knows she can have no concept of how cold _between_ really is. 

“Put this on,” T’ny directs her. “Quickly.” When she’s ready and they’re both strapped in to Ferroth’s harness he pictures the ridge as clearly as he can, adding in as many specific details as he’s able to be sure of. In the image, the sun is just slightly higher in the sky—if they can arrive on the ridge _before_ showing their presence in the valley, all the better to surprise any scouts. Ferroth is hardly two dragonlengths above the ground before he transitions _between_. 

Even with the nudge of a shift in time, the ridge is empty. Or more accurately, abandoned, though how recently is anyone’s guess. T’ny keeps Rumiko away from the cliff’s edge and the view of the valley. For all that timing it is an open secret in the Weyr, he’s not certain how the Holders would take it: The knowledge that a dragon and rider could be nearly any _when_ as well as nearly anywhere. He forces himself to concentrate to any evidence they might be able to glean.

Dragon and human tracks mar the dirt, and a crude blind of woven grass and bamboo is propped roughly halfway between the edge of the cliff and the true end of the vegetation. There’s even a fire pit, long cold, dug deep enough to keep the light from being immediately visible at night. A roughly broken path through the grass leads to a small latrine.

They can find no sign to identify the rider. No discarded tools or dishes, no broken threads of Weyr braid. The hollow where the dragon rested implies at least a brown, if not a bronze.

 _Did you feel any presence here, or when we were_ between _?_ he asks Ferroth again. _Maybe Enenoth?_

 _No,_ Ferroth tells him. _And I do not smell him or H’nek either_.

_What do you smell?_

_Soot,_ Ferroth says. _Sweat. Cooked wherry and salt and fish. And cave damp._

_Cave damp?_

_Like the deep tunnels._

Deep tunnels. T’ny sighs. If it’s not H’nek and Enenoth it might be anyone, from any Weyr. 

The thought is not reassuring. H’nek, at least, he might have been able to find. He makes a note to try to go back further later, after he’s returned Lady Rumiko to her Hold. Earlier in the day, or the day before the attack if he can manage it. Timing it might be a strain, especially in a case like today where his “past” self will be physically nearby, but any clue is valuable at this point.

“Weyrleader,” Rumiko calls, and T’ny joins her near the abandoned fire. “Any sign?”

“No,” T’ny admits. “I’m afraid—”

Ferroth shifts warily, and there’s a sudden chill in the air. T’ny dives at Rumiko but the newcomer is upon them with a thunder of wings before he reaches her. Together they tumble to the ground at the edge of the bluff. T’ny can feel open air under his heels and curls his legs in, scrambling to wrench his flight cap and goggles free of his face so he can better see what’s happening.

The other dragon is a bronze, larger than Ferroth and with a blood-red shine to its scales. Before T’ny can formulate a plan, one of the dragon’s rear claws sweeps toward them and T’ny rolls, managing to make sure he’s the one in the way of that strike. On the one hand, this keeps Rumiko in relative safety, even if she’s closer to the edge of the bluff. On the other hand, he now has a searing wound in his side. Riding leathers aren’t meant to stand up to dragon claws, and without his jacket his quilted vest and undershirt are even less protection.

Ferroth roars a challenge and there’s a thunder of wings. T’ny can feel the impact of heavy dragon footsteps, and all he can think is that Ferroth has never fought another dragon before, never even thought to, and the stranger . . . has. Even the little he can see is enough to make that obvious. He tries to give Ferroth advice— _ignore me, get to better footing; he’s going for your harness_ —but it’s not enough. In just a few rushing heartbeats Ferroth is pinned by wing and harness both, growling and thrashing as best he can and _roaring_ his rage both aloud and inside T’ny’s mind.

Then, both the strange dragon and his rider turn their attention to T’ny.

The rider stares down at him, a cruel smile on his thread-scarred face. He’s no one T’ny recognizes, no one he’s even heard tell of, and surely he should have heard of a rider who attacks other dragons. Even the braid on his shoulder is unfamiliar. But still, he recognizes that expression. No mercy, no fear. Just pride.

T’ny has his own issues with arrogance, he knows, but not now. Not with Ferroth’s life in the balance. A man like that won’t hesitate to kill, dragon or not.

“Please,” he says, gritting his teeth around the pain in his chest, the pain in his heart at Ferroth’s panic. “Please let him go. Just tell us what you need.” He has to stop himself from promising to hand whatever it is over— _anything, anything you want_ —but maybe the hint is enough to buy some time. More time means more opportunities to think himself out of this, or for some other dragon and rider pair to hear Ferroth’s pain.

The thread-scarred rider’s smile widens.

“I need nothing you haven’t already provided, Weyrleader,” he says, and just as suddenly as they appeared, dragon and rider are gone.

Ferroth goes with them. _Between_. Without T’ny. 

T’ny stares at the empty space before him. The torn and broken grass. It’s a little like he’s been treated for threadscore. Like his hands are stilled with numbweed, his face gone slack with fellis. Even the wound in his side fades into a background throbbing. He keeps reaching, striking out against the sudden frantic emptiness in his mind, but all he gets back are reflections and shadows and whispers darting through the space that used to be full of Ferroth’s molten warmth and love. Wherever Ferroth is now, T’ny can’t hear him. Wherever he is now, most likely, he can’t hear T’ny either.

The vacancy howls between his thoughts, as blank and endless as _between_.

He comes back to himself in moments like shattered glass. The world is made of too-loud noises and pain and too much light. Faces jerk and twist above him: Rumiko, looking panicked and waving her bloodstained hands, and R’dy and B'nner looking like they’ve just seen a death.

Maybe they have. Maybe he’s the one dying.

— _can’t take him—_

_—nothing I could—_

_—wound like that—_

_—I’m so sorry I—_

He lets it slip away. It doesn’t matter anymore.

***

They keep him alive. The Southern Boll healer stitches the echo of dragon talons over his chest and side and covers half his torso with numbweed, and T’ny spends what he’s later told is a full two weeks drifting between cups of fellis, changed dressings and dreams.

In his dreams he can hear Ferroth calling for him. His thoughts are faint and weak, but they’re there.

At the end of that timeless fortnight R’dy conveys him back to Fort Weyr, and it’s only as Ivoth is landing that T’ny realizes why R’dy has been so _careful_ in this journey. Why everyone waiting in the Weyrbowl avoids meeting his eyes. Why the younglings watch him with furtive fear rather than wonder. No one believes him when he tells them Ferroth is alive.

It’s Jan who sits him down in her quarters and explains.

“None of the dragons can hear him,” she says. Her hands are clasped carefully in her lap; a white mourning band is wound around one wrist. “They knew even before R’dy and B'nner got you back to the Hold, but we didn’t want to believe—” her voice breaks and she stops for a moment, wiping tears from her face. “R’dy and H’gann even timed it back to see if they could catch a scout, or maybe follow the other rider _between_ , but they couldn’t. Ivoth and Cyamith couldn’t even make the jump. H’gann said it was like trying to fly through rock.”

T’ny takes her hand, like he can convince her through touch and earnest words.

“I can still hear him, Jan,” he insists. “He’s trapped, and quiet, but he’s there. He just needs me to find him to _help._ ”

She shakes her head, squeezing his hand tight.

“Vanerith’s been in mourning, T’ny,” she says, half on a sob. “Even with the eggs so close to hatching, she’s so listless she won’t eat. He’s _gone_ , T’ny. I’m sorry, but the dragons know it and so should you.”

“If he was dead, I would know,” T’ny says. “I would _know it_ , Jan, don’t you think I would know?”

The look she gives him is pitying. He pulls away.

“You think I’m in denial.”

“I think you’re still recovering,” she says.

T’ny stands, walks to the edge of Vanerith’s sunning ledge and stares out at the Weyrbowl. At the lake, and the herdbeast paddocks, and the watchwher post, the Star Stones framing the Red Star between them, the small glass-lined building he hopes will extend their fresh foodstores over the winter.

There’s a flight of weyrlings practicing maneuvers, and a rider—H’gann, he thinks—rubbing down his dragon’s hide after feeding. For a moment, the scene crystallizes in his mind as a list of actions he’ll never take again, a list of feelings he will forever be watching on other people’s faces. The ragged emptiness in his mind is a wordless scream. It’s difficult to think past it. His injuries, still healing, are barely an echoing ache against the despair that’s trying to fill his throat.

He doesn’t ask Jan whether anyone considered smothering him in his sleep, or maybe feeding him too much fellis to help him slip away completely. He doesn’t speak at all.

She doesn’t seem to expect him to. After a while, when the shadows are dragging long and dark across the Weyrbowl, she presses a mug of chicken stew into his hands and sits beside him as the sun slips beneath the edge of the caldera. In the twilight, the Red Star gleams malevolently down at them, the menace of Thread ever-looming.

What can he possibly hope to _do_ now?

“We still need you, T’ny,” Jan says then. She doesn’t look at him, her gaze trained on the Red Star. “You’re still Fort’s Weyrleader, even without Ferroth.”

Until Vanerith rises again, she doesn’t say. They both know it. If she’s right, if he doesn’t find Ferroth alive and well before the next mating flight, someone else will take that role. And then he’ll be . . . what? A former smith, former Weyrleader, former rider? A man too much a rider to reclaim his Mastery, too much an artisan to take up farming or fishing. Not quite at home in crafthall, hold or Weyr. What will he have left? Where will he go?

“We need your hands, and your mind,” Jan says, as if she knows his thoughts. “The whole Weyr knows that you’re the one who’s going to get us through this winter without half rations and more injuries than we can bear. And I need you,” she touches his face, draws him back to meet her eyes. “I need you here, as my friend, as my confidant. I need you thinking and planning and arguing with the other bronze riders when they push. And I know R’dy and H’gann and K’rol and B’nner need you too. There will always be a place for you here.”

T’ny closes his eyes and takes long, slow breaths. He reminds himself that it isn’t going to be an issue, because he’s getting Ferroth _back_. He just has to find him.

“I’m not giving up on him, Jan.”

She stokes his hair, soothing.

“I know,” she says. “I know.”

They watch the weyr move around them for a long time, unspeaking. When T’ny looks, there are tears on Jan’s cheeks. He tightens his arm around her and pulls her closer. He spins up plan after plan, idea after idea for where Ferroth could be, what he might be doing, how T'ny could find him. He’s not sure what he feels anymore, really. Tired. Empty.

Alone.

***

His personal quarters are too big without Ferroth’s bulk to make them feel close and full, and all the rugs and wall hangings and fur throws on Pern wouldn’t be enough to keep him warm through the night there, no matter how much soup and hot cider he drinks. 

Still, he can hear Ferroth in his dreams. After three nights of ineffectual reaching and waking himself up with shouting he takes to sitting up in the ready room, nursing a cup of klah. Sam makes a habit of checking in before he and his watchwher begin their nightly patrols, and Pepper makes sure he gets a serving of breakfast every dawn, but the rest of the Weyr avoids him in those hours. 

He never hears Ferroth when he’s awake, but his snatches of sleep never provide any new information either. Ferroth is angry and mournful by turns, but T’ny tries to comfort himself that he never feels Ferroth in pain. As the days stretch with no word, and search parties return with no sightings of Ferroth or the strange rider and bronze, that small mercy is less and less reassuring.

Still, he keeps himself busy. He is still Fort Weyrleader, and for all that riding a dragon defines the position, there’s plenty to do. He amends the active roster and assigns new Wingleaders and seconds to fill Ferroth’s spot in the formations. He arranges drills and works up new flight patterns and assigns the wings to practice, then spends his afternoons chafing at the fact that he can’t even ride along with R’dy to ensure the maneuvers go smoothly while his wounds are still healing. He makes himself useful in the lower caverns, tending the still-tiny seedlings in his glass room and repairing any minor breakdowns Pepper brings him—precious metal hinges off broken dumbwaiter doors and dented bamboo water pipes. A torn harness for one of the spit dogs. A shattered wooden gear in the crank mill. 

It’s Jarvis who suggests he visit the hatching ground when he’s restless. T’ny isn’t sure what the man means by it. Honoring Ferroth’s legacy, perhaps. A reminder that, in a way, his dragon will live on no matter what happens. It’s a gift reserved for Weyrleaders and queens, and in a way he _is_ grateful for it. That even if he, T’ny, can’t make a mark on the future the way he hopes to, he will at least have these dragonets to carry on. 

The first time he steps onto the sands Vanerith greets him with a low, mournful trill, and he spends an hour sitting on her foreleg and stroking her eye ridge. He’s not sure how much of an effect it has—her eyes still swirl with dull grays and worried purples—but he likes to think it’s at least some comfort to both of them. After that she lets him wander among the eggs whenever he visits, even nudges him toward the great golden queen egg in its pride of place apart from the others. He makes a point of being very vocal in his admiration of the clutch and the queen egg in particular, and is rewarded with a glimmer of pride in her bearing. That evening Jan tells him Vanerith had accepted a small amount of food, and he makes it part of his routine to check in on the Hatching Grounds every day from then on. Even if he spends his time in the stands, pouring over maps of Threadfall patterns and piecing together runner reports and drum messages for some hint at missing dragons or more holdless thefts, Vanerith seems to appreciate his presence.

He stays out of the way when the Candidates come to check the eggs, to feel the steadily hardening shells and marvel at their size and the burning heat of the sands. He’s careful not to touch any of the eggs himself. It would be unfair, to the dragons and to their waiting potential riders, to add himself to the pool when he has no intention of standing at the hatching. 

It’s a good batch K’rol, R’dy and S’mon have found. A good mix of weyrborn and hold and crafthall hopefuls. He fixes the faces of the most promising in his mind and tries to memorize the names they call each other. Wiry young Peter and quick Elijah of Fort and Southern Boll Holds, and Jonas and Natan, both borrowed from High Reaches Weyr. Novar of Ruatha and Theodore of the Healer’s Hall. Baree from Fort’s own lower caverns, and Daveed from Benden’s. More than once he sees Kl’ton’s favorite, Kate, moving between the fighting dragons and the queen egg she was officially Searched for. Kassie does the same, and both seem more enamored with fighting Thread than leading a Weyr. He wonders if they’ll follow K’rol’s example and shorten their names after Impressing, even though it’s only really tradition for male riders. Of the young women who stick by the queen egg, he mentally marks Wanda as the most likely. She’s eager, and he knows Jan has hopes for her, for all that Jess and her Torith might prefer the younger Kassie or Kate. It doesn’t hurt, either, that permanent attachment to a Weyr and a dragon would lend Wanda’s brother added security most runners couldn’t hope for. 

When the time comes, he knows almost before most of the dragons. Even with Vanerith’s voice alone, the Hatching croon rumbles through his feet. Her call will reach others soon; every dragon in the Weyr will flock to the call of their senior queen, and the human residents won’t be long behind. He should return to his quarters, change out of his simple shirt and trousers into something more befitting a Weyrleader on this most important of occasions. But he can’t quite bring himself to leave, even as more and more dragons arrive to add their voices. The joy and hope of their song has him rooted to the spot. It swells through him, filling up the gap where Ferroth’s thoughts should be and imbuing every corner with pride and unadulterated joy.

H’gann brings him his flight jacket with its official braid on the shoulder, and neither he nor R’dy comments on the tears flowing down T’ny’s face as he takes his place with them. He’s hardly the only one so affected. No one would comment even if Ferroth were here to share the moment.

The tone of the song changes, and he wavers on his feet.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Maybe he can’t bear this after all.

He grips the edge of the stone bench until his hands ache and keeps his expression as neutral as he can. Jan is wrapped up in the thrill of the Hatching, hovering around the gold Candidates with even more overbearing attention than her dragon, but he keeps catching R’dy’s worried glances out of the corner of his eye. On his other side H’gann is stiff-shouldered and stern, at odds with the swelling excitement around them. 

An egg cracks, and then another. Dragons push themselves into the world with searching claws and thrashing tails, egg-wet wings dragging in the sand.

One of the browns has Ferroth’s freckled forelegs. A bronze shakes off the last bits of shell with the same twist of wings and shoulders. Even the tiny queen, just her head poking out of the egg yet, has Ferroth’s facial markings: broad bands of darker coloring framing the brightness of her eyes and snout. The urge to stand on the sands among the Candidates is strong enough to make his knee jerk compulsively. He _twitches_ with it. Not to Impress, no, he could never replace Ferroth, but to be . . . closer to him, somehow, through his dragonets. Not that the dragonets themselves would see anything but a rider seeking connection. He stomps his feet, trying to keep them grounded. R’dy gives him another worried look, then grabs his belt as discreetly as he can, at the back under the flight jacket. T’ny leans into him, just a little, pathetically grateful for not having to ask.

One by one the dragonets Impress. An acrobatic green for Peter, now P’ter, he notes, and a sturdy brown for E’jah. B’ree and D’veed both match with blues and N’var claims the bronze with Ferroth’s freckles. The young queen’s choice is interrupted by a green ignoring the line of waiting boys to Impress Kate, and a brown that nearly knocks Kassie over in his first greeting. When the dainty gold fully breaks free of her egg she goes to Wanda without a hint of hesitation. 

The image of the two together, rider and queen, sets off sparks in T’ny’s mind. A connection he needs. Something he can almost remember. Something important. It slips away. He gets through the rest of the Hatching and most of the feast afterward by focusing his mind solidly elsewhere, trying to prompt the thought again. He thinks on Thread maneuvers and schedules, on fighting strap design tweaks and glowbasket efficiency and every Harper ballad he can remember. It’s just before dessert is served, as Harper Natasha sings of the duties of dragonriders and Kl’ton starts explaining to P’ter how his training will start, that another spark lights. Queens, yes, but young riders too. Young pairs lost between, as too many are in their early attempts. It’s important, he just can’t quite remember _why_.

For a moment he misses Ferroth with a pointed ferocity that tears through the empty space in his heart. Talking to Ferroth, working in his dragon’s calm, unworried presence had helped him solve so many questions he couldn’t quite answer himself. But of course, if Ferroth weren’t missing he wouldn’t be considering this problem at all.

He slips away from the dining hall, quietly, with only Jan visibly marking his departure. She watches him go without protest, and once he’s outside he takes a moment to wipe his face and schools his expression. Just because the entire world expects him to be grieving doesn’t mean he has to make a spectacle of himself in the halls.

He avoids the ready room and the baths and anywhere else he might run into happy revelers, and he finds himself heading further and further into the depths of the Weyr, until he reaches the records room. There’s something he’s missing. Something about queens and _between_. Something that could help Ferroth. Fort’s records go back almost to before the first Pass. There must be _something_.

The machine at the back of the room calls to him, as it always does, the glass face of it dark and brooding. The only Harper reference he’s been able to find notes that it was able to store thousands upon thousands of scrolls of information when it operated, and he’s almost certain he could use it if he could understand how it was powered. He’s been over every piece, every tiny loop of wire and brittle square of material no crafter he’s spoken to can even identify. If it’s broken, he doesn’t know how to fix it. If it’s _not_ broken, he has no idea how to power it. There’s no handle to crank, no wheels to turn. Spinning the fans—tiny, finely made things—produced no results. 

He turns away from the thing, tracing his hand along the shelves and shelves of scrolls as he walks down the more current aisles. He’s looking for something old, maybe, but probably not as old as the machine, or the cutting torch, or any of the other remnants of Fort’s founders. Some snippet of history, preserved by the harpers. Something he’s heard or read before. He pulls an index from the Weyr ballads and settles in to read.

He finds his answer almost a week later, long after R’dy, Jan and Pepper have given up trying to shift his focus. He feels like he’s going to be permanently coated in dust from the records; he hasn’t properly braided his hair or eaten more than two meals in days. He’s let his responsibilities slide. He was so distracted during a review of training formations with R’dy and the other Wingleaders and seconds that he almost had two flights crashing into each other, but he has it. The answer. Or an answer, at least.

He runs through the halls, heedless of passersby. Jan, R’dy, H’gann and P’dan are all bent over a map in Jan’s quarters, and they all look up when he rushes into the room.

“T’ny?” 

He takes a few steadying breaths. His hands are shaking. “I want you to take me _between_.”

R’dy closes his eyes for a moment. Then he nods.

“Alright,” he says.

“I meant Jan, not you. To find Ferroth,” T’ny clarifies. “Not to stay.” He’s not ready to give up his life just yet. That much at least should be obvious. R’dy’s resolute expression falters.

“T’ny . . . ” Jan slips around her desk, reaching for him. He lets her step close, lets her run her fingers through his hair comfortingly. 

“Lorana of Benden brought whole wings of dragons back from _between_ during the last Pass,” he reminds her. “Don’t tell me it’s not possible.”

“It’s just a story—”

“Some people said _Thread_ was just a story until it started scorching crops, Jan.”

She sighs and squeezes his arms gently.

“Even if it’s true,” she says, “Even if we can trust a record that’s 200 turns old. Lorana was said to speak with any dragon, to influence them even after the death of her queen. You can’t do that, T’ny. Not unless there’s something you’ve been keeping from me?”

“I only need to reach one.” He takes her hands, imploring. “And with a queen calling too we’ll have a better chance, you know we will. I’ll bring him back, Jan. R’dy, tell her. It’s my fault he’s missing, if I’d waited for backup, if I’d been paying better attention—”

R’dy shakes his head. “A wound like that? It was a miracle you survived and you know it.”

T’ny glares at them both. “I _will_ bring him back.”

Someone coughs in the silence. They all look to P’dan.

“It’s not an unreasonable request,” he points out. “And it costs us nothing. Vanerith would be risking no eggs. Even ten or twenty attempts to reach Ferroth _between_ would take an hour or two at most. And retrieving the Weyrleader’s dragon can only be good.”

T’ny half nods, half bows his thanks, and Jan sighs.

“Very well.”

“Now?” T’ny asks. She fixes him with a stern glare.

“Tomorrow,” she corrects, but even that is enough to have him practically leaving the ground with hope. “It’s well past sundown already and I’m not taking you anywhere until you’ve had a bath and a proper meal.”

“First light?” 

She smiles. “If you’re awake and fed.”

“I will be,” he promises. He kisses her cheek. “Thank you.”

“I hope it works,” she says. “I want him back too, you know.”

***

He doesn’t manage more than a few catnaps through the whole night, but he makes sure he’s clean, groomed and dressed in his riding leathers when Jan emerges from her private quarters in the morning.

“Tell me you’ve had more than klah.” She gestures at the steaming mug in his hands.

“This is for you, actually.” He holds it out for her. “Pepper gave me a full breakfast personally. There were eggs involved and everything. She sent the same up to you.” He gestures at the covered tray on her eating table.

She eyes him warily, but takes the sweet drink without further protest.

“How do you want to do this?” she asks, sitting down to eat. He hooks the second stool out with his foot and sits across from her.

“It shouldn’t be a matter of time spent _between_ , but rather the range of Vanerith and my call,” he explains. He pulls out the hastily-sketch map he’d come up with after his bath, when he couldn’t sleep at all for the possibilities spinning through his mind. “We try once here at the Weyr, jumping from your quarters to the Star Stones. Then, if needed, we jump again. To Southern Boll first, since that’s the last place we know Ferroth was, and then to other holds and landmarks as needed.” He points out several coordinates in remote areas, far from hold or Weyr. “We don’t really know how _between_ works, but some of the records indicate a dragon has an easier time returning to spaces they know well or feel strongly about. These are hunting areas he especially likes. If we don’t find him by the time we reach the last jump . . . ” he trails off. Jan holds his hand, squeezing gently. He’s not sure what he’ll do if this doesn’t work. He doesn’t even know what else to _try_ , barring a personal mission to look under every rock and in every cave on the surface of Pern.

“All we can do is try,” Jan says. “If we don’t find him, at least we’ll have learned something. And Vanerith will have gotten some flight time. She’s been complaining about only ever getting out to fight Thread.”

P’dan leans through the doorway leading to the main caverns.

“I found R’dy, H’gann, B’nner and F’ter but no one’s seen—ah.” He smiles. “Good morning Weyrleader. H’klas and K’tess will be staying behind in case of emergency, and T’gin and K’tem are on Thread patrol, but the rest of us will be happy to accompany you in your search.”

T’ny snorts. “I doubt we need _all_ the Wingleaders as escort,” he protests.

“Nevertheless,” P’dan replies. T’ny doesn’t argue further. If it protects Vanerith, or if more dragons can somehow reach Ferroth, all for the better.

“Very well.” He turns to Jan. “Weyrwoman?”

She nods, already pulling on her flight gloves.

“Let’s get started.”

Vanerith is already harnessed, and she greets T’ny with an affectionate nudge and a helpful lift to her neck. He straps himself in behind Jan’s saddle and tries to calm his heartbeat. It might not work. He knows that. If it were any other rider, he’d probably be going along with it just as Jan is. But he has to _hope_.

“Does Vanerith know what we’re doing?” he asks as Jan finalizes her flight prep. “Is she ready to call? As loud as she can, while we’re between.”

“We’re ready,” Jan confirms. 

Vanerith stands and walks to her sunning ledge. For a moment the whole Weyr is spread out before them, the waiting bronzes and R’dy on brown Ivoth already airborne and wheeling in a holding pattern. Vanerith leaps, and the Wingleaders close in formation around her, and then they’re _between_.

As soon as he feels the chill enfold him, T’ny screams for Ferroth. When they arrive in Southern Boll, his throat feels raw, as if he was screaming aloud as well as inside his head. 

One by one, the dragons check in. No hint of Ferroth. They take a moment to let the dragons call for him in the open air, then jump again. And again. 

The thing that keeps recurring to him, alongside the tickmarks down his mental list of locations every time they jump, is that it’s strange, being dragonback and not feeling the dragon’s mind. Without Ferroth to hold onto, he feels like he’s bereft and drifting in the abyss. The inability to feel Jan in front of him and Vanerith underneath him is all the more disorienting without Ferroth’s companionship to depend on. 

Sometimes he thinks maybe he gets an echo, a whisper, but every time they land at a new location, Jan shakes her head. Nothing.

When they reach the last coordinates with no reliable contact with Ferroth, he does his best to hold himself steady. 

Jan twists around in her seat to face him. He can see the same fragile, shattering hope in her face that he feels in his heart.

“We’ll try once more,” she says. “The jump back to Fort from here is longer. That may give us a better chance.”

He nods. Vanerith leaps.

T’ny counts his heartbeats _between_ , calling for Ferroth with every scrap of emotion he can muster: fear and love and hope and aching desperation. Three heartbeats. Five.

He gets another whisper, a curl of plaintive longing not his own, and then they’re back over the Weyrbowl and it’s gone.

“Vanerith says we got _someone_ ,” Jan yells, and T’ny twists around, his heart in his throat, searching the sky for dragon wings despite the silence in his mind. 

It’s not Ferroth. The dragon they’ve pulled from _between_ is blue, smaller than Ferroth.

Blue, and falling, not flying.

R’dy shouts and Ivoth dives, but Vanerith is already in motion, swooping lower to get under the tumbling blue form, matching the dragon’s speed before slowing his descent. He’s injured. T’ny can see green dragon blood and silvery muscle showing on the dragon’s shoulders. It’s only as they all scramble to the ground and more dragons alight to investigate the commotion that he realizes the strange blue has a _rider_. The figure is wrapped in thick thread-fighting leathers, their hat pulled down to cover most of their face. T’ny can see frost on their glass goggle lenses, and the rider’s lips are faintly blue.

“Healer!” he yells, running to help untie the fighting straps. “Call the healer!”

The dragon opens cloudy eyes, their color shifting between anxious yellows and oranges.

“Shh,” T’ny pets his hide in the way Ferroth likes when he’s nervous. “We’ve got him, we’ll help him, you’ll be okay.” He helps R’dy and P’dan lift the rider out of his fighting harness as gently as they can manage, yelling over his shoulder for Jan.

“Libereth,” she replies. She’s on his other side, Vanerith bent close and watching curiously behind her. “His name is Libereth.” 

* * *

S’teve wakes disoriented and shivering, gasping and trying to grab onto anything solid, shouting inside his head because there is no breath _between—_ _Libereth, where are you? Libereth tell me you’re here_.

 _I’m here_ , his dragon answers, and the assurance soothes the panic fluttering inside him. _We are in a Weyr. You’ve been sick._ There’s a tinge of worry there, but only a tinge. Not so very sick then. Now that he’s calmed slightly Steve can feel the familiar ridges of a rope-and-timber bed frame under his fingers and shoulders, and the draped weight of down-heavy quilts and furs over his limbs. There’s a murmur, too, that slowly resolves itself into voices.

“It worked.”

“We don’t know anything but his name. We don’t know why they were _between_. F’tan has never heard of him.”

“But we’ll find out. And while we figure that out, it still _worked_ , Jan. The theory is sound.”

 _Libereth?_ He tries again, but he’s not sure what he wants to ask. Maybe who F’tan is, or where they are more specifically. He doesn’t quite have the focus.

 _I’m here,_ Libereth repeats, just as he had all through that long dark time _between_ , and S’teve slips back into sleep.

He wakes again, more slowly, to gentle glowlight and slightly off-key humming. A teaching tune, he thinks. One of the rhythmic ones for remembering a task order, maybe.

He opens his eyes. 

‘A Weyr.’ Not home; even without Libereth’s cues he can tell that much. The dark stone ceiling is arched and glass-smooth, the walls thick with colorfully embroidered hangings and neatly brushed furs, the furnishings all somewhat finer than anything in his own quarters at High Reaches. Fort, maybe. Or Benden. He hopes for Fort. Nik’las has always spoken well of their Weyrleader.

A dark-haired, olive-skinned rider with a neatly trimmed beard sits on a short stool nearby, a waxed slate set on his knees and most of his frame obscured by his open jacket. Or at least, S’teve assumes he’s a rider. His hair is plaited in neat Threadflight braids but the knotwork on his shoulder is hard to make out. Smithcraft red is strung alongside Fort colors and dragon bronze. The twists aren’t what S’teve is used to, but possibly this rider is highly ranked despite looking no more than a turn or two older than S’teve himself. Maybe a Wingleader, maybe a second. That’s promising.

Libereth is resting on a stone dragon couch a few feet away, watching him. There are dressings on his shoulder and along his side, but his color is good, and his eyes swirl a bright, contented green.

 _The others call him T’ny. He sits there a lot,_ his dragon notes without prompting. _Most days. Once he brought me meat, but it made him sad._

“Of course you remember the food,” S’teve mumbles, and the humming stops.

“Awake are you?” The rider—T’ny—smiles at him. His eyes are as blue as S’teve’s own. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been frozen and only half thawed.” S’teve tries to sit up and groans as something seizes in his back and side.

“Careful now,” T’ny guides him gently flat again. “The healers said you might have significant muscle fatigue, and that knife in your side’s not doing you any favors either.”

He produces two copper cups with reed straws sticking out over the rims. “Fellis? Water?”

“Water,” S’teve decides. He can endure the pain if if it lets him keep what wits he can still claim. 

T’ny holds the cup steady for him. “You’re right about the frozen part,” he says. “We found you _between_. To be honest I was expecting someone else. But here you are.”

“Thank you,” S’teve says. “And thanks to your dragon as well, from both of us.”

T’ny pauses for a moment. His expression twists.

“Thank Jan and Vanerith,” he says, quieter. “They did the heavy lifting.”

S’teve’s missing something. T’ny looks away, a sort of dull pain in his eyes that S’teve associates with bad threadscore and too much fellis. 

He looks to Libereth, but his dragon offers no answers. Even his eyes are hardly changed, shining a pale blue-green of simple interest.

“Anyway.” T’ny clears his throat. “My name’s T’ny, if your dragon hasn’t told you already, and if you’re feeling up to it I have a few questions . . . ” he trails off. “You look like you have some questions of your own.”

“Where are we?” S’teve asks.

“Fort Weyr. These are some of the quarters we keep for injured fighting pairs. You’ve been unconscious for over a week.”

“Any reports on R’skull?”

T’ny looks confused.

“R’skull?”

 _What?_ Surely every rider knows of R’skull’s war against the Weyrs, his conquest of Ista and Igen, his madness and violence in his quest to attack the Red Star, his self-appointed role as “the savior of Pern’s dragons.”

Surely.

“I need to speak to your Weyrleader,” he says.

Another pained expression. “We’re in a bit of a flux at the moment, but I’ll get you a hearing as soon as the Wings are back. Threadfall hit us at two different Holds today.”

S’teve stares. As far as he’s aware, Thread hasn’t fallen on Pern in several turns. 

“The Red Star came back?” 

T’ny blinks at him, his blue eyes gone wide, his eyebrows rising incredulously.

“Thread’s been falling over most of Pern for nearly five turns now.” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Where are you from? Your braid says High Reaches, but no one there’s heard of you _or_ your dragon. Your badge says Wingsecond but again, no one knows you. You and your dragon are injured, but not by Threadscore. Who _are_ you, S’teve of High Reaches?”

“I—” S’teve flounders. “I don’t—five turns?”

 _Libereth?_ he asks, more plaintively than he intends. For a moment he receives no answer.

 _I don’t know._ Libereth admits, finally. _I have been sleeping also. Only the queen has spoken to me beyond greetings._

Something changes in T’ny’s face. He stands and strides to the doorway and ducks around the blue-and-white hanging. S’teve watches his shadow against the patterned cloth. Another shadow joins them and T’ny’s hands move emphatically. The other shadow leaves. When T’ny returns, S’teve has nearly composed himself. As much as he can claim to be composed, flat on his back on an invalid cot.

“Why were you _between_?” T’ny asks. 

“We were trying to get home. To High Reaches. We were both injured.”

“How did you get injured?” T’ny is frowning, leaning forward with his arms tightly crossed. Behind him, another rider slips into the room, and then another, one bronze rider and one brown, and then a petite, dark-haired woman with glittering twists of gold over her shoulder who can only be the Weyrwoman.

Watching the way the three of them move around the room, the way T’ny moves his stool to make room for the queen’s rider without looking, S’teve tries to speak as clearly as he can. 

“We were fighting R’skull’s forces. Weyrleader Nik’las was leading the battle personally. I—provided a distraction while the Weyrleader set up an ambush. But—” he shakes his head. “I’m not sure what happened. Sarkith is the one who hit us first, she’s the one who raked up Libereth’s shoulders, and then Onaputh hit us too and then . . . we were _between_ for ages. I thought we might be there forever, but then we were—” He presses his hands to his face, trying to get a moment away from his intently waiting audience. There had been no sign of recognition at any names he’d mentioned.

 _What happened?_ He asks Libereth. _Where were we, after that long time between?_

 _It was the same place_ , Libereth insists _. It was the same mountain_.

S’teve stares back at T’ny.

“Something was different. I don’t know. Libereth says it was the same place, but there was no sign of R’skull’s rogue Weyr or the Wings. I don’t know.”

The newer bronze rider steps closer. He’s a ruddy, heavyset man with brown eyes and hair and a square face, and the smell of firestone lies heavy on his leathers. 

_H’gann_ , Libereth supplies. _He checks on T’ny a lot._

“Were you trying to time things? In this attack?” he looks to T’ny, as if for confirmation.

“Not once the battle started,” S’teve says. “We timed things so all the Weyrs could arrive when we were sure R’skull was there, whatever time they set out, but once we were engaged it was too dangerous. Nik’las specifically forbade anyone trying to jump times as well as places during the fight. There was too much risk.”

Another look, heavy with meaning, shared between his interrogators.

“Are you saying we’ve traveled in time? Traveled _full turns_ , maybe—”

T’ny holds up a hand to stop him.

“Earlier you were surprised that Thread was falling. You said, _The Red Star came back_? How—how long has it been since Thread fell? For you.”

The Weyrwoman looks shocked, her blue eyes widening and her hands rising to her mouth. S’teve swallows hard.

“Three turns,” he says. T’ny nods. The other riders shift uneasily, shooting looks at each other.

“When was that?” T’ny asks. “What day, what turn?”

S’teve searches his memory. He hadn’t particularly marked it at the time because he hadn’t known it would be the last.

“It was spring. Maybe fifth month, second week of the fiftieth turn of the Fifth Pass. The Lord Holders and Weyrleaders declared the new Interval on the start of the sixth month.”

T’ny blows out a long breath and leans back, letting his arms drop to his sides. The Weyrwoman clutches at her heavy wool skirt, her knuckles turning pale as bone against the yellow and black zig-zag pattern.

“Three hundred turns,” she whispers.

“We are in the ninth month,” T’ny says, “of the fifth turn of the Fourth Pass.”

S’teve adds up the turns in his head, trying to make them fit. _Fourth Pass?_

“But that’s—the Fourth Interval is long.” His voice comes out half-strangled and he has to stop and clear his throat. “That’s more than five hundred turns.”

In the silence, S’teve can faintly hear the sound of a drum message. Fort Hall to Fort Weyr, something about a birth maybe. He can’t quite catch the full meaning. He wonders if it’s the difference of five hundred turns’ time or just local code. He has an urge to laugh, like this is a very elaborate joke. Any moment now Mor’ta will come in and wink at him, and everyone else will laugh too.

T’ny grins suddenly and leans forward, eager.

“I have so many questions,” he says. “Not now, obviously, but when you’re feeling better—”

The brown rider puts a hand on T’ny’s shoulder, studying S’teve as intently as Nik’las ever has. He has Nik’las’ height too, but he’s closer to S’teve’s age and his skin is a rich dark brown, his face somehow gentler, even in this intensity.

 _R’dy_ , Libereth supplies. _I think._

“This R’skull you mentioned. What does he look like?” R’dy asks.

“Tall, pale, broad-shouldered,” Steve answers. “His face was scarred by Threadscore turns ago, and it took most of his hair so he goes bare-headed. He rides a bronze that gleams red in the sun. Onaputh.”

T’ny withdraws, both physically and emotionally, closing in on himself. R’dy’s frown deepens.

“Do you know why he might steal a dragon?”

S’teve looks between that stern face and T’ny’s abstraction, puzzle pieces clicking into place. No Weyrleader, _a bit of a flux_ , and a dragon is missing. _Missing_. Not killed.

“No,” he admits. “He recruited, aggressively. He took over a Weyr and kidnapped young bronze riders and blackmailed others, but I never heard of him stealing just a dragon. He didn’t need to. But he likes power, likes making other fear him. Maybe that, or for blackmail too? Have you received any demands?”

The Weyrwoman is curling her hands around T’ny’s. H’gann shakes his head. No demands.

“Has he been known to _kill_ dragons,” R’dy asks, and T’ny flinches.

S’teve licks his lips. Libereth growls softly behind him, drawing concerned looks. 

_We’re okay_ , he reminds his dragon. He needs the statement to be true, and so for Libereth it is. Or perhaps Libereth just realizes that now is not a good time to be making a poor impression.

“He’s killed blues and greens,” he says. “He considers them unnecessary. I never heard of him killing a bronze or brown rider. Even his enemies were apparently—” He hesitates, grimacing. “Good breeding stock.”

T’ny surges forward, the stool clattering to the floor in his wake despite the Weyrwoman’s attempt to restrain him and shouts from his comrades. He seizes S’teve by the shoulders, firm enough to not-quite hurt.

“He’d keep Ferroth alive then.” His eyes bore into S’teve’s. “He wouldn’t just drop him _between_ somewhere, he’d imprison him somehow.” 

_To lose a dragon_ , S’teve thinks. _To lose a dragon and not_ know _if he was alive or not . . ._ He and Libereth share a moment of echoed horror before he manages to speak.

“As far as I know, yes,” he says, as reassuring as he can manage. He prays to the stars he’s not leading the man into false hopes, but he _knows_ R’skull, at least a little, after the last few turns of fighting him. “He _likes_ killing. If he wanted your dragon dead, he would have killed you too.”

T’ny sags and closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, almost a whisper. “I know it’s not much better, but—”

“Where there’s hope there’s will,” S’teve says. “Or so I’ve been told.”

T’ny opens his eyes with a faint, regretful smile.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Hope.”

***

T’ny visits him often in the days that follow. At first S’teve worries that he’s looking for more information S’teve doesn’t have—knowledge of R’skull’s plans, or where he might be hiding in this time. But he comes to realize, slowly, that T’ny mostly visits because he doesn’t have much else to do. And to ask questions about the future.

On that front, S’teve is afraid he’s a massive let-down. Most of the questions T’ny has—questions about Smithcraft, and devices, and ancient relics and waterwheels—he just doesn’t know the answer to. For other questions, he can only offer disappointment.

“Have we made it back to space?” T’ny asks one morning when S’teve can actually sit up properly and they’re celebrating with real solid food for breakfast. After more than a week of soup and fruit juice just the _sight_ of sausage, eggs and fresh bread is enough to make S’teve feel like he might really be healing. 

“No,” he reports. “Nothing like that.” He doesn’t mention that R’skull had, at one point, proposed traveling to the Red Star itself via dragon and Attacking Thread at its source. He tries not to mention R’skull at all, if he can help it. No reason to remind T’ny of the wounds he carries unnecessarily.

T’ny just shrugs, as if he didn’t really expect another answer.

“Any _messages_ from space? New colonists come to join, relief parties, a timely delivery of new technology like the Founders left behind?” T’ny’s grin is infectious, as if he knows he’s being ridiculous.

“Not that I’m aware of,” S’teve says. He hides his smile behind his mug of klah, basking in the sweet cinnamon scent of it. _Caffeine_. He’s probably not actually supposed to have it yet, but T’ny hasn’t noticed.

“Shame,” T’ny marks a notation on his wax tablet. “I suppose it’s too much to hope for, really. If no one new’s turned up in seven hundred and fifty turns yet, it’s unlikely they’d suddenly arrive in the next five hundred.”

“Would you go up there if they did?” S’teve asks. “Out among the stars?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” For a moment S’teve has T’ny’s full attention, scorching in its intensity. It’s like he’s given the man a present. Like a new thought is a gift. “That would be—” he rubs his forehead, smearing milky wax over his brow. “Wow. No, mostly I was hoping for replacements for the archival machines, or information on how to work them. Or the machines they used in the First Pass to make vaccines for the dragon plague! What a wonder those must have been. Or, failing that, raw materials. Iron. Tin. Aluminum. Even more copper would be useful. Some days I still can’t quite believe so many people would choose to live somewhere they knew had poor mineral deposits. I suppose the original six thousand knew they wouldn’t be the ones dealing with the limits.” T’ny shakes his head, as if the scarcity of metals on Pern is a well-worn complaint.

“The red braid on your shoulder,” S’teve gestures at T’ny’s casual jacket with a piece of sausage. The red threads stand out clearly against the light leather, more clearly than his twist of bronze dragon braid. “Were you a smith, before your Impression?”

T’ny tilts his head to the side, a motion S’teve is starting to recognize as an indicator of mild discomfort.

“I sat my mastery about two turns before, yes.”

“Two turns before?” S’teve startles. “How old were you?”

“Sixteen.” T’ny shrugs, as reaching the pinnacle of a craft before full adulthood is hardly an accomplishment. “My father was Mastersmith before he died. Sometimes I think his successor would have had me sit them sooner if the other Masters hadn’t protested.” His mouth twists, slightly rueful. “Didn’t want to be shown up by a boy whose voice had barely broken.”

T’ny turns back to his tablet, chewing on his lip. S’teve can just about make out a list of fighting dragons and their fitness; weyrlings, juniors and senior riders all in neat columns. He finishes his last bite of sausage and tries to move on from the obvious sore spot. One of the few things he does know about this Pass, from T’ny’s endless supply of maps and records, is that none of the major Weyrs or craftholds have changed much. The jurisdictions seem to be mostly the same. Which means T’ny would have spent most of his life at Telgar Hold, under Telgar Weyr.

“How did you end up getting Searched for Fort?” He makes the question casual, keeping his focus on his eggs and bread rather than T’ny’s face.

“Luck. I was delivering a set of jewelry to Southern Boll and R’dy showed up, looking for Candidates. Ivoth liked me and they offered the invitation.”

“And that was it?”

“Well, no. I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up the Craft. But I thought about it all the way home, and in the forge and at my workbench and I just . . . couldn’t pass it up. Smithing is something I’ll probably never give up fully, but it can’t compare to doing something _real_ about Threadfall. Or to—” he cuts himself off with a grimace. “Ferroth,” he finishes. Pain is obvious in his face.

“I’m sorry.” S’teve shakes his head, scolding himself. Stupid question. “Poor topic.”

T’ny shakes his head, small curls pulling loose from his braid.

“Not your fault. Anyway, I ran away. Got here three days before the Hatching. They never would’ve taken me at Telgar, even after Thread started falling, not with Obadiah breathing down their necks every Gather, but here—here we were home.”

S’teve nods. “I didn’t have any family left to run from,” he shares. “But I know the feeling. I didn’t even wait to be Searched. I just showed up, a few days before my fifteenth turn. They almost didn’t let me stand on the grounds.”

“Too many Candidates?” T’ny makes another note, then picks up a hastily-drawn map, his dark brows drawn close in focus. Some of the charcoal along one edge smears over his hands and the the inner side of his wrist. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“No, they knew I’d been sick as a child and I was still scrawny because of it.” S’teve takes sip of water. His blanket is suddenly too warm. He folds it lower on his legs, despite Healer Stephen’s instructions. “My mother had been one of the Weyr healers for a few rotations while I was young. Old L’vuto didn’t want me anywhere near a dragon, in case I keeled over before I even got out of training, but Nik’las was Weyrleader by then, so it wasn’t his decision anymore.”

“And you got Libereth,” T’ny says, just a hint of wistful longing in his voice.

“Yeah,” S’teve agrees. Libereth purrs gently from his sprawl in the sunlight, as if he’s remembering too: that perfect moment when they’d come together and known, deep in both their hearts, that they’d never be truly alone again.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, forcing himself to refocus on T’ny.

“For what?”

“That Libereth and I aren’t your dragon.”

“That’s hardly your fault. If anything, I’m glad you’re here. You two are proof I’m not losing my mind when I think Ferroth’s still out there.” T’ny lets out a long, slow breath. “I’ll find him. Somehow. And in the meantime, it sounds like you’ve got new problems for us to worry about.” 

S’teve tries for a distraction, before T’ny can start feeling any worse than he probably already does.

“Do you still craft?” he asks, and T’ny seems gratified at the change of subject.

“Of course. I made these just a few months ago.” He holds up his right hand to show off a set of silver bracelets that look like they might be designed to hold a stylus in his sleeve. “Up until two turns ago I was the official smith for the Weyr. Now it’s B’nner, but we pretty much share the duties. Repairs for the kitchen, mostly. And repairing glowbaskets, and forging new fighting strap buckles. And I’ve got my own projects.” 

He pulls another tablet from the stack at his feet and hold it out in exchange for S’teve’s empty plate. It’s covered in diagrams, some of them small enough enough that S’teve wonders just how finely tipped T’ny’s stylus actually is. There’s something that looks like a new sort of flight helmet, with the goggles built-in rather than separate, and sketches of a building from a few different angles next to a creditable depiction of a dragon’s wing in some sort of brace. After a moment of turning the tablet between his hands S’teve realizes that the other drawings are detail studies: a set of gears to drive a fan like the ones in the lower caverns, the nozzle of a ground crew flamethrower, some sort of complex locking mechanism and what looks like it might be a telescope.

“You work with wood and glass too?” he asks, passing it back. His fingers itch to pick up a stylus or pen or charcoal stick and draw some sketches of his own. It’s been months, at least, since he had this much enforced downtime. It’d be nice to be able to do something with it, now that he can actually sit up for part of the day.

“And ceramics.” T’ny nods. “I don’t know any craft secrets, of course, but I found people who were willing to share the basics. You have to know a little for the Mastery, even if metalwork is still the main thing, because there’s a lot of crossover in things like telescopes and kitchenware. And I was never satisfied with my ore allotments. I almost defected to the glaziers when I was ten, out of sheer frustration. At least we’ll never run short of sand.” He gives S’teve a look like he’s sharing a joke. “Besides, sometimes the best thing a smith can do is say ‘it’d be cheaper in wood.’”

S’teve does laugh at that, the sound startled out of him, and he winces as his stitched stomach muscles spasm despite the thick poultice of numbweed covering them. Libereth’s head jerks up and T’ny starts towards him, concerned. He waves them off.

“I’m fine,” he insists, though he does carefully slow his breathing. “It’s just—wood had gotten so rare at the end of the Pass, I can remember the Lord Holder at Nerat once complaining that it’d be cheaper to order new silver plates from Telgar than craft them in-hold from hardwood. And my arts master had mineral pigments to spare, always, but ask him for a bit of madder red or indigo or good charcoal black and you’d be treated to a whole afternoon’s worth of lectures on the scarcity and value of even an ounce of paint and how only masters could be relied upon to use them properly.”

“Arts master?” T’ny’s interest is plain on his face. “You paint?”

“Painting, drawing, mosaics, sand art, murals. I even did some whittling and inlay work for a while, nothing mastery level of course. I was actually hoping to ask—”

“I can definitely get you some supplies,” T’ny agrees, nodding eagerly. “Do you have a preference? Rag paper? Bamboo sheaves? Papyrus? Parchment? Canvas? Any favorite inks or paints?”

“Whatever’s easy,” S’teve insists. “I wouldn’t want to strain your resources for my entertainment.”

T’ny gives him a look that S’teve is pretty sure means he’ll be getting some of everything, just because T’ny _can_.

“We make most of our own,” is all T’ny actually says on the subject. “In the meantime…” he searches through his stack of tablets and selects two and a polished wood stylus, then pulls a sort of silvery disk from his pocket. “You can have these,” he says, palming the disk and pressing it to the wax.

“You needn’t—how are you doing that?” T’ny isn’t just blurring the old lines in the wax: he’s actively _melting_ it enough to get a clean finish. Somehow.

“A little invention of mine.” T’ny finishes wiping the first tablet blank and grins. “It was my journeyman project, actually. I’ve made a few for the Harper Hall and the Craft Masters and Lord Holders, but most people don’t have much call for it. Here, you can do this one.”

He presses both tablet and the metal disk into S’teve’s hands. The device turns out to be two convex disks held together with a tiny hinge at one end and a latch at the other. One side is covered in soft brown suede. T’ny presses the covered side into S’teve’s right palm, where it radiates gentle warmth like a bed-warming stone. T’ny tilts it so S’teve can see a small lever between the disks, and just the hint of a candlewick.

“When you need to use it, you just push the lever,” T’ny says, leaning close enough that S’teve can feel his bodyheat, almost as warm as the device itself. “It releases a spring that causes flint to strike steel, inside, and light the wick. When you’re done, you just undo the latch, flip it open, and blow out the flame.”

He grins, eyes bright, as if he can’t think of something he’d rather be doing than helping S’teve re-use a wax tablet. S’teve finds himself momentarily at a loss for words.

“Try it,” T’ny urges. So S’teve presses the metal side to the wax and draws it along the top edge. The wax melts slowly, just enough to smooth out all but the deepest impressions without any running off the slate and onto his lap. After a second pass the top quarter of the space is entirely unmarked.

“It doesn’t take long to cool,” T’ny notes as S’teve starts on the rest of the tablet, wiping away grids of dragons in flight formation. “I generally find that if I do two, the first one’s ready by the time I finish heating the second. More convenient than tracking down a lit fire any time you want to erase, anyway.”

S’teve sets the tablet carefully on his knees and opens the disk. A tiny flame smolders on the tufted wick fibers. S’teve blows it out.

“I certainly would have liked one for working on flight graphs.” He passes it back. T’ny refuses to take it, closing S’teve’s fingers around it with warm hands.

“Keep it,” he insists, “I have others. Besides, if R’dy hears that you design Wing maneuvers, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of use for it.”

***

After that, they have a pattern as days turn into weeks. T’ny makes sure S’teve is supplied with any type of paper, parchment or canvas he could desire, as well as a whole array of colored inks, paints and wax sticks, and every day they spend a few hours over breakfast drawing together and talking about inking techniques, art, pigments, dyes and whatever new questions about the future T’ny has. Then S’teve has his physical therapy sessions with Healer Stephen, and does his best to make sure Libereth is scrubbed, oiled and fed with the help of a few of the older hopeful weyrbrats who didn’t manage to Impress at the latest hatching. He draws on the sunning ledge when he has energy, or plays chess and cards against himself or any healer novice who happens by to check on him, or sleeps. He sleeps so much he grows to hate his bed and takes to shoving it to new places around the room or piling blankets on the cold stone floor.

Most evenings T’ny returns with maps, figures and the latest reports from his Wingleaders, and they pass the time working out new schedules and flight groups to ease the strain on tired riders as Thread falls more and more frequently. They haven’t reached the breakneck pace of a Pass in full swing yet, but they’re getting close.

“P’dan and B’nner had to time it to get to Ruatha yesterday,” T’ny tells him one such evening. “We were expecting to cover the main hold, but the wind moved things along ahead of our timetable. B’nner said Thread was flying nearly horizontal over the eastern rice fields.”

“We saw that a few times too.” S’teve takes up a tablet and sketches in arrows for the line of Threadfall. “Usually the best strategy is to use three and a half wings, with the half being greens and blues. Greens especially have the best reaction time to flame and pop _between_ to the next clump of Thread. Instead of columns and lines, we approached in curves flying with the wind.” He presses a few examples into the wax, jotting in dragon placements with shorthand notations. “That way, the browns and bronzes don’t get hit with big clumps as soon as they arrive from _between_ and can actually flame effectively, and fewer dragons get overtired.”

T’ny leans close, studying the sketch. He reaches over S’teve’s shoulder to trace one finger along a few of the paths, his mouth moving silently as he talks himself through what it would look like. The soft wool of his shirt brushes S’teve’s cheek. 

S’teve realizes he’s staring at T’ny’s lips. That he’s been leaning into these little touches, and staring at lips and wrists and hands and the line of T’ny’s neck for a while now.

He wonders if T’ny has noticed. If maybe he should say something, now, when they’re close like this.

“This is good,” T’ny tells him, apparently oblivious to S’teve’s moment of revelation. “I should show R’dy, he and K’rol can test it in training, but it looks like it should work better than what we have. Do you think—”

“T’ny.” 

T’ny and S’teve both look to the doorway where The Weyrwoman waits. Jan. She’s wearing full riding leathers.

“Duty calls.” T’ny shoots S’teve a wry look and goes to meet her.

They speak too softly for S’teve to hear. T’ny has gone still and serious, looking more like a Weyrleader during Threadfall than the man S’teve’s been getting to know. And of course he _is_ a Weyrleader, leading at the start of a fifty-turn Pass, and S’teve knows that, he does. He’d just forgotten some of what it meant in the face of T’ny’s attention and friendship.

Jan reaches up and touches T’ny’s face, a fond smile on her lips as she smooths his loose hair into place, and T’ny smiles back, catching her hand as she draws away and holding on for a moment. And then she leaves.

S’teve doesn’t quite want to admit to the part of himself that’s disappointed at this obvious show of affection between them. The newly discovered part that’s apparently been harboring a tender affection of its own for some time. His little ember of a hope that the relationship between Weyrleader and Weyrwoman here might be no more than platonic flickers. He pushes the thought away. Makes sure his expression betrays only mild interest as T’ny turns towards him.

“They need me at Fort Hold,” T’ny says, striding back to the bed. He gathers up his things—discarded flight jacket, a roll of cloth maps, two wax tablets and a little stitched journal. “Two of their flamethrowers are malfunctioning,” he explains. “I’m something of an expert, and since I’m not fighting Thread myself . . . ” He straightens his shoulders and nods at S’teve. He looks distracted. Probably already thinking about Threadfall and the inner workings of flamethrowers. “You have enough paper?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” S’teve tells him.

“Right.” T’ny nods again. “Ill see you later then.” He hesitates briefly, readjusting his armful of belongings, and then he flashes S’teve a smile and leaves.

 _Are you alright?_ Libereth asks, moving his head just a little closer to S’teve’s sickbed. _Why are you sad?_

 _I’m fine,_ S’teve tells him. _Just disappointed. It’s silly_. Silly to miss something he never had. Silly to be getting attached at all when there’s a whole different Pern waiting for him, somewhere in the future. Somewhere on the other side of an impossibly long trip _between_.

He shivers, his jaw clenching tight. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, the room going dim and gray as if the glows need to be renewed. Another shiver racks his frame, hard enough to shake his shoulders and send stabbing pain through his gut.

_S’teve?_

He forces himself out of the bed, dragging quilts and blankets with him to settle against Libereth’s side. His dragon is warm, and solid, and safe, and they are not _between_. They’re on solid ground, and they’re healing, and there are people who care about them, even if it isn’t home. 

Libereth watches him carefully, his eyes whirling yellow and orange, and S’teve fills his whole field of vision with that worried gaze and Libereth’s deep blue form and says _I’m fine, I’m okay_ , and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince his dragon or himself.

***

This chills fade, his dreams smooth out, but S’teve’s crush doesn’t go away. He can ignore it, or set the feelings aside, but they’re always waiting, ready to rise like soap bubbles as soon as T’ny gets close, or smiles, or shares a joke. 

He does his best to distract himself. With art, sketches and brightly colored portraits and studies, and flight diagrams and dragon solitaire and even clumsy plinking at a small drum one of the healer novices lends him. When he’s particularly bored he plays games of I Spy with Libereth, who doesn’t see the point but humors him anyway.

As soon as Healer Stephen lets him spend more than an hour out of bed outside his therapy, he goes exploring; just a few steps outside his doorway reveal that Fort is even more of a warren than High Reaches. In the brief forays his weakened muscles allow, S’teve finds a number of entirely unused areas, including a passage that ends in a rock slide only two halls down, and a curving semicircle with no rooms that simply dumps him out fifty feet further along the passage he entered it from. Its only purpose seems to be as a viewing area for the beautiful sunrise mosaic that lines one wall.

“Oh, we’re a mess,” T’ny agrees when S’teve relates his adventures. “Part of being first means that the Founders didn’t really have a plan, I think, and they certainly weren’t worried about conserving the use of the plasma cutters.”

“High Reaches is a little random.” S’teve draws careful charcoal lines over a sketch of Libereth’s eye as he talks. “It took me six months to figure out where the winter stores were, but it’s nothing like this.”

“I still don’t know where every passage goes.” T’ny grins, like this is something he enjoys about his Weyr. His journal is open on his knee, a page covered in shorthand S’teve doesn’t recognize. “Mapping it is a constant project. We keep a big evolving mess of muslin and paper in the Dining Hall so people can mark down what they find. But I can definitely give you a bit of a tour, at least. The bathing caverns, the Council Room, the Dining Hall, the kitchens, the Hatching grounds. Whatever you need.”

“I don’t want to monopolize your time,” S’teve starts, but T’ny is already snapping his journal shut and standing.

“I need to eat too, don’t I? Come on, we’ll get a meal in public for once.”

He holds out his left hand in open invitation, and S’teve can’t bring himself to refuse.

The halls are busy with riders, workers and artisans from the Lower Caverns, and there are a surprising number of children too. A group of ten of the younger weyrbrats—too young to have volunteered to help him with Libereth—crowd around them for a moment, watching S’teve with cautious interest.

“Is he the one from _between_?” one of the oldest, a tall girl with deep brown skin asks T’ny. She wears harper blue and sways gently in place, as if to music only she can hear; the beads in her long braids clink gently.

“S’teve is from High Reaches,” T’ny tells her. “Known for…?”

She grins. “Carpentry, wood, the Fishercrafthall and goat wool. We did them last month.”

“But he’s from High Reaches in the _future_ ,” a smaller girl in a pale spring green smock enthuses. She’s bright-eyed and freckled and almost as pale as S’teve, her fine red hair twisted into buns over her ears. “Maybe they make other things!”

“Nothing’s changed much,” S’teve tells her. “Maybe a few more goats.”

“Is there still Thread?” asks a stocky young boy who reminds S’teve vaguely of R’dy. “And dragons?”

“Of course there are still dragons,” scoffs the red-head. “He rides one, doesn’t he?”

“I’m sure S’teve will be happy to show off Libereth,” T’ny says, “ _later_.” He raises his voice to be heard above the children’s rising excitement. “For now, he and I both have duties to attend to, as I’m sure you all do as well.”

There’s a general sigh and a few impressive pouts.

“Go on,” T’ny encourages them. “If you finish your lessons on time, I know the weyrlings would welcome some help oiling their charges.”

“Master Natasha says only people who remember their teaching ballads get to help dragons,” the harper girl reminds some of the younger ones, ushering them along. As they turn the corner S’teve hears a shrill voice say, “I heard his blue is as big as a bronze!” Beside him, T’ny looks faintly amused.

“Is it true that the birthrate goes down all over Pern during a Pass?” he asks as they resume their walk.

“As far as I know,” S’teve answers, dodging around a brazier that glows cherry red with the heat of its caged embers. “I think we had about fifty under twelve turns when the Pass ended.”

“Fifty?” T’ny gives him an incredulous look. “We have nearly a hundred and twenty at the moment, and at least five on the way that I know of.”

“Any of them yours?” S’teve asks because he can’t quite stop from poking his own sore spots. But T’ny shakes his head.

“No, no. Not sure I want to, in a Weyr. I considered it, before the Impression, and then I thought raising new blood in the Craft might be . . . but a rider during a Pass pretty much has to foster out. I’m not sure I could.”

T’ny stops in the center of a crossroad and gives him an assessing look.

“Did you leave people behind in the future? A partner, children? You haven’t mentioned—”

“No,” Steve shakes his head. “Nothing like that. Nothing permanent.” He almost says _you know what they say about riders_ , but he’s never really liked that particular stereotype. Having a dragon has never made him or any rider he’s known less loyal to a partner than any holder or crafter. Come to think of it, he’s not even sure if that’s a saying in this Pass. But some of the other stereotypes—that riders rarely marry, that riders are more free with their affections, that riders tend to have less formal relationships—those he’s seen in practice. 

He shakes away the question of whether T’ny’s relationship Jan is more or less formal. It’s not his business.

T’ny just nods. “One less thing to worry about then.” He claps his hands together. “So, what would you like to see first? Hatching grounds? Baths? Dining Hall? Ready rooms?”

“What’s closest?” S’teve asks.

“Hatching grounds it is!” 

T’ny talks constantly as they walk, greeting Weyr residents and pointing out landmarks or bits of Fort’s history. S’teve meets Sam, who apparently heads the watchwher squadron for night patrols, and Kl’ton, a young green rider who communicates through a combination of hand signs, lip-reading and dragon-relayed messages, and Wanda and Jess, two of the junior queen riders.

“Wanda just Impressed Merath and Jess’s Torith rose for her first mating flight just two months ago,” T’ny notes as the women slip down another mysterious hallway. “We had poor luck with hatchings the first few turns of the Pass, but Vanerith’s produced two queens since Jan became Weyrwoman, which is weight off all our minds I’m sure. We’ve been keeping injuries down but there’s never such a things as too many dragons during a Pass, is there. Ah, here we are.”

The Hatching Grounds set the precedent for every other room they visit: Fort is grand and sprawling, with more decorations and more frivolous touches than High Reaches could ever hope to boast. The Founders seem to have spared no particular thought as to whether something was necessary or useful, but simply questioned whether they could do it. In that way, S’teve’s not sure he can imagine T’ny anywhere else. There are whole strings of caverns dedicated to crafters and traveling tradesmen, each one decorated with fine examples of the craft like a Gather display. There are elaborate statues cut into tunnel crossroads and fading murals of Weyr history and at least three separate routes to every major nexus. T’ny shows him marks on the walls that indicate, to those who can remember them, which tunnels a given path will intersect with. He also relates landmark- and number-based mnemonics designed to help children and new residents remember the paths between the Great Hall and the baths, or the training barracks and the row of ready rooms, or the second dining hall and the Hatching Grounds.

“It’s a lot to remember,” S’teve says as they finally slide onto benches in T’ny’s usual ready room below the Dining Hall. “Like being a Candidate, all over again.”

T’ny nods acknowledgment with a rueful smile.

“When you’re well enough there’s no reason you can’t return to High Reaches. I’m sure F’tan would be happy to have you.”

“I think I’d rather stay here, at least for now.”

T’ny gives him a questioning look, and S’teve struggles with what to say. Literally living in the past is strange enough. Living in the past of his own Weyr, with familiarity and jarring strangeness around every corner, is not appealing. And there are other considerations too.

“I know you at least are searching for R’skull, and I don’t look forward to convincing another Weyrleader he’s a threat. And besides that, I doubt it’ll be any less strange than staying here. A lot can change in five hundred turns. It’s not as if I know anyone there.”

 _And I like you_ , he doesn’t say. It occurs to him, belatedly, that Fort might not _want_ an extra blue dragon and his rider fallen from the future. “You’ve made me feel as much at home as I can,” he adds. “If I am wearing out your hospitality—”

“No, no.” T’ny cuts him off, waving his hand dismissively. “Even invalided, you’re pulling your weight.” He smiles. “More than, if you count keeping me occupied, which I’m sure Jan does.”

“That’s no hardship,” S’teve blurts, unthinking. Heat rises in his cheeks. _T’ny is a Weyrleader,_ he reminds himself. _He already has attachments._ But T’ny’s smile widens.

“Good to know,” he says. “I—”

There’s a loud clatter and a rumble S’teve can feel through his feet. A moment later a pale, red-headed woman wearing a sensible green dress and a kitchen apron walks quickly into through the doorway S’teve had been assuming connected to the kitchens.

“Oh good,” she says on spotting them. “T’ny, can you take a look at the elevator for me?”

T’ny nods and stands, and S’teve follows them back to the kitchens more out of curiosity than any idea that he might be able to help. 

“Pepper, this is S’teve,” T’ny introduces. “S’teve, Pepper. Our headwoman.”

“So you’re the one that’s been keeping him from getting underfoot.” Pepper smiles at him. Her eyes are a bright golden-green. “Pleased to meet you. Do let me know if your room needs any amendments, or if there are foods you prefer to avoid. Stephen hasn’t mentioned anything but we do try to make the time a rider’s grounded comfortable.”

“Everything’s been wonderful,” S’teve tells her. “Thank you.”

“And the children have been letting you be?”

“I only met a few of them this morning.”

She nods. “Tell me if they start dodging chores or pestering you.” She turns to T’ny. “It’s the number two shaft, as you might have guessed.”

“Did the chain break again?” T’ny asks.

“Not this time. It seems to be stuck somehow.”

They turn a corner into a hall that looks more like a staging area than the kitchen S’teve had envisioned. Steam and rich smells wafting from the many doorways imply the real preparation happens further on. T’ny and Pepper both turn to a wall lined with five open shafts, each a few feet wide. Kitchen staff are busy in front of four of the shafts, one group loading trays of food into a large metal box while the three others unload empty trays and dishes and cart them off to the scullery.

The middle shaft is at a standstill with the box stuck only partly raised, the top still visible. It looks like a large dumbwaiter, same as High Reaches uses, but High Reaches doesn’t have anything on this scale. T’ny first checks the loop of chain strung over two pulley wheels at the side of the shafts with no result. He pulls two slim rods of metal from a nearby compartment set in the wall and threads them through both sides of the chain just above and below where they meet the wheel to stop it moving, then fetches a ladder to check above the box inside the shaft itself. 

“Really it should be B’nner doing this,” Pepper confides in S’teve as they watch him work. She’s keeping her hands busy, peeling and slicing potatoes into a blue-glazed bowl. “But since he lost Ferroth . . .” her face softens. “I knew him before he Impressed. He’s changed, but some things stay with you. And T’ny is never happy unless he thinks he can be useful.”

“I know that feeling.” S’teve reaches for another clean bowl and knife and begins peeling and slicing too. Pepper looks as if she might protest for a moment, but subsides.

“I suppose we all do.” She passes him the salt water to dredge his peeled slices in. “But T’ny has always been—more driven. He used to run himself ragged on whatever project he’d chosen to change the face of Pern, but Ferroth tempered that. A man can only do so much when he has a dragon to care for. Now . . . ”

T’ny ducks out of the shaft and rummages through the tool compartment some more, emerging with what looks to S’teve like a mallet with the twisted curve of a crowbar at the end of the handle. 

Pepper sighs. For a moment she looks particularly tired, her freckles standing out starkly on her face.

“Truth to tell, I’m glad to speak with you. T’ny is as multifaceted as dragon eyes. Most of us close to him are taking his interest in your company as a good sign. A sign that he might keep more in his life than searching for Ferroth every moment of the day.” She gives him a stern look. “You’re not encouraging him in that, are you?”

S’teve stills his hands, doing his best to meet her gaze. “I’ve told him there’s no reason for R’skull to have killed Ferroth, but I also don’t know why he was taken. We mostly talk about other things. Fighting Thread. Art. History. Chess. His inventions.”

“That’s a better distraction than nothing, I suppose. You should ask him to play for you sometime. He’s quite skilled at gitar, loathe as he is to admit it.” 

Before S’teve can respond there’s a clunk and a clash of metal hitting metal, and the box shudders and drops about an inch before the rod in the mechanism catches it.

“Got it!” T’ny declares, emerging from the shaft in triumph. “Bit of cutlery got wedged, then caught and wedged some things of its own.” He holds up a mangled and splintered serving spoon, a smashed wicker basket and a dented copper bowl. 

“Thank you, T’ny.” Pepper sets aside her knife and wipes her hands on her apron. “Is it safe to take the stopping rods out now?”

“Should be,” T’ny tells her. “You just might want to remind the kitchen staff that the painted borders are there for a reason.”

“I will,” Pepper stands. “You should go clean up. I’ll make sure S’teve gets bowls for the two of you.”

T’ny looks down at the streaks of dust and grease on his tunic and accedes the point.

“See you shortly,” he says to S’teve.

***

“The Smith Crafthold replaces the chain and the pulley wheels every decade or so these days,” T’ny says once they’re comfortable in the ready room, each with a steaming bowl of curry before them. “But the originals apparently lasted for a few hundred turns. The pieces are kept in the Harper Hall. I saw them once when I was a journeyman, studying Fort’s other ancient relics. The alloy is incredibly durable. It never rusted at all, despite all the steam involved. Some of the old machines I think hardly have more than a few ounces of metal in them, but we have no idea how the Founders were able to craft anything on such a fine level.”

He frowns down at the tiny hinges he’d brought with him, another kitchen malfunction, and sighs. 

“And when you compare it to what we’ve managed to keep or recreate . . . I wish they’d left more records. There must be better ways than the ones we know. Every time the wind picks up or a dragon gets careless or, I don’t know, the humidity gets too much I have to repair some part of the greenhouse or another. I suppose it’s lucky I haven’t lost more of the glass.”

“What’s a greenhouse?” S’teve asks between spoonfuls. T’ny looks like he’s been slapped.

“You don’t have greenhouses?” he asks. “How—”

S’teve shrugs. “Maybe we call them something else?”

“Hmm.” T’ny picks up his tiny hammer, then puts it down without using it. He stands, pocketing hinges and tools both. “Come with me.”

“Should we leave the food, or—”

“Bring it along.” T’ny picks up his own bowl and spoon. “Pepper tends to be unforgiving when I leave good food to cool.”

He leads S’teve through the lower caverns, past the kitchens, the candidates’ rooms and cave after cave of storage space until they step through a heavy leather door hanging and into a room that is significantly warmer and brighter than the rest of the Weyr. Instead of dark, smooth-carved stone the walls and ceiling look to be a combination of stretched, translucent vellum and tiles of a slightly milky glass set in bamboo lattice frames. And every available surface is lined with plants, tables and shelves and most of the floor all covered in trays and pots and baskets. Everywhere Steve looks he finds a new shade of green, with hints or red and yellow mixed throughout. Onion sprouts line the floor-level trays in large quantities, and he thinks he recognizes basil, sage, thyme, peppermint, and several types of salad greens too. There are even some sapling fruit trees and compact needlethorn bushes, and what he’s pretty sure are ginger, garlic and potato plants.

“It needs to be bigger,” T’ny is saying, still striding ahead of him, checking on pots and trays and adjusting little reeds that S’teve realizes are an irrigation system. “Right now we only really have enough space for herbs and greens and onions in any quantity, and not enough of those to feed the whole Weyr. I’m planning to expand it over the winter and start more variety in the spring.” He turns back to S’teve, looking for some sort of reaction.

“This is amazing.” S’teve sets his bowl down carefully and examines a tray of herbs more closely. The plants look springy and healthy, nothing like the wilting and seeding rows of the outdoor garden he can see from his quarters. “You can keep growing all winter?”

“Through the whole autumn, at least. I had a smaller arrangement of glass-topped row covers last turn, so I have high hopes for this one.” T’ny looks around the room proudly. Then his face falls.

“You haven’t seen anything like this before, have you.”

“There are windbreaks and shutters around the High Reaches gardens, but nothing this big.” S’teve waves at the interlocked tiles, the shelves and shelves of plants. “I haven’t been to Fort in my time, they might have one.”

“But you’ve never seen one at a hold or anywhere else,” T’ny says, intent.

“No,” S’teve admits. T’ny slumps.

“My hope was that it could revolutionize food production,” he says. He runs a finger down the leaves of a basil plant, gentle and, S’teve thinks, a little sad. “Even small-scale, one of these in every Hold and Weyr, or even just the glass-topped shutter boxes over terraced row crops, could significantly extend food stores. No more holders or Weyrleaders panicking about how to feed their people after a bad harvest. We’ll need it this winter ourselves, after the poor harvest and R'skull's thefts.” He squints up at the tiled ceiling glass. “I wonder what goes wrong.”

S’teve frowns at the mention of R’skull. He hadn’t realized more than a dragon had been taken from the Weyr. A theft of supplies, especially tithe supplies on any scale, would imply R’skull was planning to see more than just himself and his dragon through the winter. As if he had allies already.

He watches T’ny for signs he’s thinking about R’skull or his dragon, but the man seems entirely focused on the potential future of his greenhouse. Occasionally he takes a distracted bite of curry. S’teve sets the matter aside for now.

“It’s five hundred turns,” he points out, picking up his own bowl again. “It could be anything. And like I said, I haven’t been everywhere. I hadn’t seen your Council Chamber here, either, and that’s existed since the First Pass.”

“But you’d heard of it,” T’ny notes. “You hadn’t heard of this.”

“I’m not a farmer. I hadn’t heard of dumbwaiters before I Impressed Libereth, either, but High Reaches still had them. And I know about this now.” He grins and nudges T’ny’s shoulder. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. Fresh food in winter sounds marvelous. How’d you build it?”

The question seems to knock T’ny out of his gloom, or perhaps it’s the moment of contact. Either way, he brightens.

“Finish your lunch and I’ll get the ladder so you can see the roof properly.”

The climb is a little precarious, but T’ny holds the ladder steady for S’teve and then scrambles up like he does it every day. Maybe he does. He picks up one of the glass tiles and unhooks it from the lattice, showing off the overlapping layers and the system of interlocks. 

“I’m making more glass for the expansion,” he explains, gesturing at the walls that are partially covered with vellum. “Ultimately every organic part will be protected with at least one glass layer, so Holders won’t have to worry about Threadfall over it at all.” 

“Like the shutters over the windmills,” S’teve offers, and T’ny nods enthusiastically.

“B’nner and I worked on improvements for those together a few turns ago,” he says. “Good to know something survived long enough for you to see it. Now, this—” 

T’ny talks about thickness and clarity and different glass-making techniques and the molds he tried before he found the one that worked best. He talks about chemical additions and innovative uses for dragon flame. He has ideas for reflective backings for easier mirror production and prototype ovens that magnify and concentrate the sun’s heat to dry out a harvest in hours instead of days. And S’teve just listens, and watches, and enjoys the whole sight of him, doing something he so obviously loves. He returns to his quarters that evening drained and tired but largely content. Hopeful.

And no less infatuated with T’ny. He lies down to let his aching legs rest and throws his arm over his eyes.

There had been a moment, up there on the roof of T’ny’s pet project, when S’teve had almost kissed him. It was the casual hand on S’teve’s shoulder, and the smiles, the eager energy of him, of his hopes for the future despite S’teve’s ability to report disappointments. That confidence that even if his legacy won’t last five hundred turns, the work is still worth doing, here and now. The grounded sense of practicality even when his dreams outstrip his means. 

He’d leaned in and let his hand hover just under T’ny’s elbow and tried to form the words to ask—and then a flight of dragons had popped in from between, bugling and trilling all around the Weyrbowl, and they’d both flinched at the noise and the moment was lost.

 _He likes you_ , Libereth informs him. _He said so._

 _He’s with Jan_ , S’teve repeats. _He’s the Weyrleader. You know that_.

 _Glorenith says the Weyrwoman is with P’dan._ Libereth says, snippy. _She says the next time Vanerith rises it’ll be Denneth who flies her because Jan and P’dan are Weyrmates._

 _And you believe everything a green tells you?_ S’teve asks. _Humans are more complex than dragons, Libereth_.

 _Not that much more complex_ , Libereth huffs. _He likes you. You’re just being stubborn._

_Are your wounds itching or are you just tetchy?_

Libereth considers him carefully for a moment, then croons gently, though whether he means it as reassurance or apology S’teve’s not quite certain.

 _I always like scratches_. 

S’teve sighs and heaves himself back out of bed to climb up on Libereth’s shoulders where he can rub the healing scars comfortably. It’s as much of an apology as he’s ever likely to get.

***

It’ll be another few weeks before S’teve is declared fit to fly, even though he’s feeling physically better every day. 

“Gut wounds are always slow to heal,” Healer Stephen assures him. “And that’s even if a rider isn’t weakened by all your time _between_. _”_

S’teve is thankful that he can at least move around the Weyr without having to stop and rest repeatedly, and that what had been stabbing pain in his side is now more of a dull soreness, even without numbweed, but the inability to fly is a constant itch in his mind, startling him at odd moments with an impulsive longing for the sky and crisp wind in his face.

Libereth recovers faster, and his appetite returns quickly enough that S’teve ends up sitting on a sunning rock near the lake, mending his fighting harness and watching his dragon hunt in the Weyrbowl every few days. When the light is good he gets in some sketches too, and the light is usually good. The Fort caldera seems to be ideally situated to catch the sunlight. 

It only takes a handful of reminders to stop Libereth gorging himself on the skinny herdbeasts Fort keeps, though no one ever says anything to S’teve about rationing. Most of the Fort dragons seemed to hunt their prey wild. A long winter coming, S’teve remembers. Holders did have a tendency to be more stingy when Thread died on its way to ground without dragon intervention, he knew. And with R’skull poaching supplies, Fort had other troubles besides.

“He’s looking much better,” T’ny comments one afternoon. He settles on the flat-topped sunning rock and looks at S’teve, not out at the Bowl, and S’teve wonders if he’s deliberately avoiding the scene of happily basking dragons.

 _Greedy gullet_ , he thinks as blue wings flash in a pounce and another beast falls. Libereth just hums in his mind with sated satisfaction.

“He’s certainly eating himself stupid,” he says. “Sorry about that. I should be able to take him further out in a week or two.”

“No apology necessary.” T’ny leans back on his elbows. He’s been working in the forge, S’teve realizes. The smell of hot copper lingers around him, and he’s stripped down to a simple red tunic that leaves his forearms bare. “I brought you here, and unless or until you decide to go elsewhere, you’re welcome to make your home here. We can always use another dragon, especially with a rider like you.”

“Like me?” S’teve snorts, turning away from the sight of T’ny’s bare arms and ignoring the little flush of pleasure rising to his face. Perhaps he can blame it on the sun. “Injured, you mean?”

“Someone who thinks about flight in more than two dimensions,” T’ny says. “R’dy and K’rol have been trying out your suggestions. They work. K’rol’s going to start teaching them to the older Weyrlings soon.”

“I didn’t invent them,” S’teve points out.

“Sure you did.” T’ny’s grin is bright, his skin taking on a golden glow in the sunlight. “You gave them to me, didn’t you? We certainly never had them before. Just because you learned them five hundred turns in the future doesn’t mean you didn’t invent them now.”

S’teve blinks down at the plait-work leather in his hands, trying to fathom this bit of logic. It works out. The implications are dizzying. Everything he does here, every step, every decision he makes has, from the perspective of his birth, already happened. The mural he’s been sketching for his quarters might last decades, influencing riders he’ll never know but who were still born hundreds of turns before him. The buckles in the harness he’s working on will likely be melted down at some point, but the metal itself could survive centuries, to be used by riders he might have even met, one day in the future. And this, a simple bit of strategy in approaching a specific pattern of Threadfall _,_ he _knows_ will survive for hundreds of turns, through two full Passes of the Red Star and countless riders and Weyrleaders.

“My head hurts just thinking about that.” He finishes the braid briskly, tying it off with a firm tug.

“Time is strange.” T’ny’s voice has an almost dreamlike quality to it as he stretches out his legs and stares up at the sky. “The first day Ferroth and I timed it was actually our first time fighting Thread. We were supposed to go _between_ to Ruatha, and we did, but I overdid it on the visualization and jumped back six turns. Just in time to fly over the courtyard where twelve-turns-old me was admiring their doors. As I remember it, Ferroth’s hide in the sun matched the bronze detailing perfectly. It was the first time I’d looked at a dragon and thought of it as something that could apply to me.”

S’teve considers this. “So you think maybe you yourself were the example that made you become a rider?”

“Well, there were other factors, certainly. But would I have considered it as much as I did, without that? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it _did_ affect me.” 

S’teve thinks there might be a hint of bitterness in T’ny’s voice at that, though whether from the mention of Ferroth or some other memory he can’t know. He shies away from the questions popping into his mind that might push T’ny further into melancholy.

“Will you help me wash Libereth?”

The words are out before he thinks, before he considers that possibly T’ny might not want to be anything like so close to someone else’s dragon while his own is still missing. 

T’ny shifts and shades his eyes to look across the Weyrbowl, to where Libereth is finishing up his meal.

“Sure,” he says, an amused smile on his lips as he turns back to S’teve. “I could probably use a wash myself anyway.”

There’s a gaggle of weyrbrats who come running out to help too, though S’teve does notice that at least a portion of their ‘help’ consists of splashing water at himself and T’ny as well as Libereth. But it’s a beautiful autumn afternoon, just warm enough yet that the lake is merely chilly rather than ice cold, and the sun shines bright on his bare shoulders as he scrubs at Libereth’s hide. It shines on T’ny’s golden-brown shoulders too, his tunic also abandoned after he’d tripped over Libereth’s foot and plunged headlong into the water, but S’teve’s doing his best not to stare.

 _You could eat less messily,_ he reminds his dragon. _I’ve seen you do it_.

 _You wanted to see T’ny without his tunic on,_ Libereth says, and S’teve blushes so hard he thinks steam must be coming off him. Libereth looks smugly satisfied, and then one of the weyrbrats knocks S’teve enough off balance that he slips and falls. The water closes over his head and for a moment he’s floating disoriented, unsure how to surface, until his hands and feet find the smooth-polished rocks that line the bottom.

When he resurfaces, sputtering, T’ny offers him a hand up. He’s laughing and just as wet as S’teve is.

“I think they coordinated that,” he says, gesturing behind himself. “You went down, I turned at the splash, and then Doreen came up behind and bowled me over as well.”

S’teve looks around. The children are all running back toward the kitchen, some of them looking over their shoulders with wide gleeful grins.

He wipes at his eyes and takes T’ny’s offered hand. And then Libereth jumps and sweeps his wings to glide to the shore, and sends a wave crashing into them both. S’teve ends up half-unbalanced and clutching T’ny’s shoulders for support.

 _Stop helping_.

Libereth doesn’t even deign to answer, ignoring him in favor of stepping daintily out of the shallows.

“Alright?” T’ny asks. His hands are warm, one palm flat against S’teve’s ribs and the other cupping his elbow. S’teve starts to straighten, ready to apologize, and then his foot meets a slick rock and he stumbles again. 

T’ny steadies him, one hand sliding down to S’teve’s hip, the other up to his shoulder. Water droplets sparkle in his beard, and his hair hangs loose to his shoulders, the tie lost somewhere. There’s a sudden tension between them, a _potential_ that sparks like flint on steel. S’teve feels like his entire self is condensing, quickened breath forming tingling points of focus in his lips, and his tongue, and up under his ribs and—T’ny catches his eyes and it’s like nothing else exists. The water, the sun, the noise of herdbeasts and dragons, the clatter and bustle of the kitchen all fade into dim unimportance. The hand on his shoulder moves, tracing along his neck to his jaw, until he can feel T’ny’s thumb on his chin. 

“May I kiss you?” T’ny asks, low and intimate, and S’teve lets himself move, putting one hand to T’ny’s neck and pulling him even closer.

“ _Please_ ,” he says, so close he can feel T’ny’s breath on his lips, can feel the prickly brush of his beard as he smiles.

For a timeless moment, that’s the whole world: T’ny’s lips on his, the press of his tongue, the warm, solid intensity of him an anchor as S’teve feels something inside him spark out like a firework, hot and bright and loud enough his ears are ringing, and whatever coherent thoughts he had left scatter with it. He finds T’ny’s waistband with one groping hand and pulls their hips flush together and kisses back harder, satisfaction thrumming through him at the touch of skin on skin, at T’ny’s soft groan against his mouth, the burning contrast in the heat under his skin and the cool lake water—

 _Are you going to mate with T’ny?_ Libereth asks, nothing but mild curiosity in the question, and S’teve jerks like he’s been splashed again and pulls away from the kiss, mortified.

T’ny actually looks disappointed for a moment, but then he blinks like he’s waking up from a dream and offers a slightly puzzled smile. S’teve fights the urge to dive back in and kiss those lips again.

“Something wrong?” T’ny asks.

“No, no.” S’teve realizes he probably looks ridiculous, stumbling around and blushing and every bit of him still soaking wet, but he takes a breath and steadies himself. “No, everything’s fine.” He grins, elation bubbling though his chest. “Better than fine. Libereth just decided to shove his nose in.”

T’ny shoots an amused look over his shoulder at Libereth, then reaches out and runs his fingers down the side of S’teve arm from elbow to wrist to hand.

“Do you think Libereth would begrudge me another kiss?” he asks.

“He better not,” S’teve blurts, and T’ny laughs like it was surprised out of him, full and strong enough to shake his shoulders. But he does kiss S’teve again, less intensely but lingering. This time it’s T’ny who pulls away first. S’teve can see Libereth over his shoulder, watching them with that knowing dragon expression of smugness.

“You’re a strange man, S’teve of High Reaches,” T’ny says, squeezing his hand lightly. “For _weeks_ I’ve been hinting about this, trying to give you opportunities—”

“ _What_?”

“But you kept backing off, so I thought maybe I’d read things wrong, five hundred turns can change a lot, like you said, but _now_ —”

“I thought you were just being _nice!_ ” S’teve protests. “I thought—I wasn’t sure— and there’s Jan—”

“You must be the only person in the whole of the Weyr who doesn’t know Jan and P’dan are together, then,” T’ny tells him, grinning. “As for being born to the Craft, weren’t you born to the Hold yourself? Are you going to tell me that makes a difference?”

 _I did tell you_ , Libereth says.

 _Shut up_. _Just… shut up_.

Libereth hums the low, gravely rumble that passes for dragon laughter, and T’ny’s grin widens.

“It makes _some_ difference,” S’teve says, because it had been a rather significant difference when he first joined the Weyr, five hundred turns in the future. “I’m not good at… sharing. Romantically. For example. But on the level of… whether or not I want—no.” 

T’ny studies him for a moment, and S’teve is acutely aware of his braid sticking wet and heavy between his shoulder blades, and the rough pull of wet wool against his legs, and the fact that he _still_ after five turns in the Weyr, can’t quite admit explicitly, out loud, that gender has very little to do with his romantic choices and he doesn’t need a traditional courtship. He crosses his free arm over his chest, clutching his own shoulder against the chill in the air, but he doesn’t let go of T’ny’s hand.

“Exclusivity won’t be a problem,” T’ny says finally. “I just want to be certain this is something you _want_.”

“It is. Something I want. Yes.” He’s blushing again, he can feel it. His _ears_ are burning. T’ny is smiling slightly, like he finds S’teve being unable to form proper sentences _endearing_ or something.

“Just let me know if I push too fast,” T’ny says. “Or if I seem to be ignoring you. I have a tendency to get wrapped up—”

The rest of his statement, whatever it was, is cut off by a trumpeting dragon call. Four dragons—a green, a brown, a blue and a queen, all but the blue hardly half-grown—land heavily in the center of the weyrbowl, and T’ny is out of the lake and running before the riders dismount. S’teve follows, pausing only to snatch their tunics from the lakeside.

 _What’s happened?_ he asks Libereth.

 _A queen is missing_ , his dragon relays. _Stolen_.

It can only be R’skull, a suspicion confirmed when he reaches the cluster of riders and dragons. The youngest junior queen rider, Wanda, is huddled into Jan’s embrace, and the brown and green riders are clutching at each other, tears spilling down their cheeks. The blue rider, a broad-shouldered woman as fair as S’teve, is leaning hard on R’dy, giving her report in short sentences between moments of choked rage.

“I was flying escort for Wanda and Jess, and we met Kate and Kassie practicing longer jumps _between._ Radeth relayed there’d been a sighting at Ista Hold.” She clenches her hands into fists. “It matched the description T’ny gave. A red-bronze dragon and a rider with a Threadscored face. I told the girls to return to the Weyr and went to investigate and—”

“They were on us so fast,” Kate says. “Three bronzes, one of them huge and red in the sun. It was like they were already there and they’d been waiting for K’rol to leave. Simenth called out to them but said it was like trying to talk to a watchwher.”

“We tried to get Plarynth and Simenth between them and the queens, but the biggest one just jumped _between_ , around us,” Kassie adds. “He _wanted_ to hit Jess and Torith, I think.”

“He was aiming for me,” Wanda says, half-muffled by Jan’s jacket. “But Torith is bigger than Merath. And Jess got in the way, and then—” she breaks off, sobbing. Jan rubs her back soothingly.

“The dragons collided, and then they all went _between_ ,” Kate says. “And Simenth says she can’t hear Torith anymore.” She turns to Jan. “Are they gone? Is that what that means? Are they _between_ forever, or—”

“He’s replacing Sarkith,” S’teve says. They all look at him. “R’skull needs a queen if he wants to continue his plans. Sarkith and her rider are dead. He needs someone new.”

“Which means he’ll keep them alive as long as he can.” T’ny sighs. “I suppose that’s something. Merath will probably lose her clutch though, going _between_.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kate says. “If we hadn’t gone so far—we only wanted to practice—”

“It’s not your fault.” K’rol grimaces. “I should never have left you on your own.”

“Enough,” Jan commands. “If R’skull has other riders supporting him and can set such a trap, we will have to be more wary. Each of you was only doing your duty. The Wingleaders and I will devise new strategies to prevent this happening again. We will assign patrols specifically to look for the missing dragons and call a full council to make certain all the Weyrs are informed. In the meantime,” she levels her gaze at S’teve, “I think it’s time you told us more about R’skull’s aims.”

***

They end up in the Council Room, S’teve and T’ny still in damp tunics and trousers and most of the Wingleaders and seconds in various states of flight gear. S’teve can’t help feeling a bit like he’s standing in front of a tribunal. The Pern-famous table with it’s inlaid precious stones, and the delicately carved stone chairs and the whole overwhelming presence of it all, with the Weyrwoman, and the Weyrleader, and 12 Wingleaders and their seconds all staring at him.

“Tell us everything you know about R’skull,” Jan says. 

S’teve takes a deep breath and does his best. He talks about the records Nik’las found, from before S’teve was a rider: records that showed R’skull was an ambitious rider who Impressed at Ista Weyr in the last decade of the Pass. Ambitious enough to take his dragon higher and higher, trying to reach Thread at its source. An ambition that led to coming back from _between_ directly in the path of a huge clump of thread that scored both himself and his dragon badly enough that they almost died and spent months in recovery. After that the records got less specific. Nik’las had suspected that R’skull deliberately destroyed some of them. But what they did know was that eighteen months before the end of the Pass, R’skull became Weyrleader at Ista and that Weyr became very quiet. Only bronzes and the senior queen were seen at Gathers or the Pass-end celebrations. A turn after the Pass ended he took Igen too, via intercepted mating flight. 

After that he’d made no secret of his movements, poaching Candidates and even eggs whenever and wherever he could. Initial attempts to confront him ended in injuries and deaths, and the other Weyrleaders were left in flailing confusion. _Dragons fighting dragons_. It seemed impossible. Greens and blues from both Weyrs fled to the other four with tales of coercion and pain and terror. Many disappeared or were killed. The few bronze and brown riders who escaped described worse: a cult of personality; Brown and bronze riders who followed R’skull and his chosen queen without question. Riders who believed the only path forward for Pern was breeding larger and tougher bronzes, to go between and attack the Red Star directly. Clutches where any eggs deemed too small were destroyed before hatching. Junior queens and newly-impressed weyrlings forced into service or suicide through blackmail or open threats. R’skull and his merciless bronze riders seemed to be everywhere at once. The Weyrs soon started training to fight on dragonback, with Nik’las taking the lead in strategy.

“And you attacked him directly,” Jan confirms. “That’s what you were doing when you both came _between_ to this Pass.”

“Yes,” S’teve says. And then again. Yes, R’skull had a way to make dragons under his command less susceptible to a queen’s commands. They’d thought it might involve blood, like watchwher bonding. Yes, R’skull had trained riders and dragons both to kill, with knives and fire and lances. Yes, the Weyrs had attempted capture over killing.

Yes, S’teve can draw a portrait of R’skull for better identification. Yes, he can write up the training regimens his Weyr used to train for dragonback fighting. Yes, he’s certain R’skull will try to achieve such power again. Yes, yes, yes. He talks until his voice is raw and then they ask him more questions. About Jess and Torith. About Ferroth. About the design of the shields and lances and nets. About safety measures for flaming against other dragons. And on, and on and on.

When he’s finally dismissed S’teve feels a bit like a washcloth that wasn’t wrung out properly. He’s still damp in some places, and stiff in others. His hair in particular is a cold and dragging weight against his neck and back, and his limbs have all the strength and coordination of a freshly hatched dragon. He trips three times on his way back to his quarters and has to spend some time holding onto a corner and just breathing.

Just hours ago he’d been energized and _happy_ and hardly feeling ill or injured at all, and now here he is, panting and sweating on shaky legs as he tries to drag himself to his bed. It’s annoying, after all the progress he’s made, to still be finding new limitations.

One of the healer novices—Layla, S’teve thinks her name is—finds him halfway down an empty corridor and helps him retrace his steps, past warrens and tunnels he doesn’t recognize, to a familiar spiraling ramp with a dragon etched deep in the stone wall, and then to the dining hall, and then to his rooms. 

_I got lost_ , he says in the face of Libereth’s concern. _I’m just tired._

 _If you don’t rest we can’t go flying_ , Libereth reminds him, but S’teve can feel the real thread of worry in his thoughts. There are too many things they can’t protect each other from, right now. R’skull’s upended the order of the universe twice now, five hundred turns apart, and somehow S’teve and Libereth are still here. Dealing with it.

He misses fighting Thread. It was _simple_.

T’ny finds him later, much later, after the drums have sounded the roll for sunset and the gong has rung for two dinner shifts, and in all that time S’teve hasn’t managed to do much more than change clothes, weather a visit from Healer Stephen, sit on his bed, and comb and dry and re-comb his hair. 

T’ny looks haggard, moving with the sort of plodding, rote actions that S’teve associates with sleepless nights. He has a tray of food, and halfway to the little cluster of stools and fold-out tables they’ve been sharing meals at lately he stops and stares down at it blankly.

“Have you already eaten?” he asks. S’teve shakes his head. T’ny nods, repeatedly, like he’s not quite processing the reaction.

“Do you want to? Should I let you be?”

“You can stay.” S’teve sits up properly. “But I think if I get up again Healer Stephen will push back our flight tests another week and Libereth will never forgive me.” He starts shifting aside the pile of scrolls and art supplies next to the bed to make room for T’ny to join him.

T’ny nods again, then grabs one of the fold-out tables and drags it over to S’teve’s bed. He sets down the food and goes back for a stool. He hasn’t changed clothes, S’teve notes, but he has at least slung some sort of wrap around his shoulders. The red and gold threads of its weave are vibrant even in glowlight.

T’ny slumps onto the stool and simply stares at the food. S’teve takes a hot steamed bun and nibbles at it.

“Did you all settle on a plan?” 

“Jan is scheduling more patrols and sending trios of messengers to alert the other Weyrleaders. There will be travel restrictions for rider and dragon pairs and new drum codes written up. All news comes straight to the Weyr. No more scouts darting off alone to follow rumor.”

“And Jess and Torith? And Ferroth?”

“We don’t know.” T’ny puts his head in his hands. “The Wings will keep searching, and calling, but it confuses the dragons. K’tess said his Liyuth described it as looking for something in the dark that you know is somewhere else.”

“Libereth and I will help,” S’teve promises. “As soon as we’re cleared. We’ll do whatever we can to help you find them.”

“Thanks,” T’ny says on a sigh. He meets S’teve’s eyes, chin propped on his hand. “Really, thank you.” He offers a rueful smile. “Sorry I couldn’t help you get back here. Did you get badly lost?”

“Only a little.” S’teve pours two cups of redfruit juice and nudges one of them toward the other side of the tray. “But I’m not your responsibility, T’ny. I can take care of myself.”

“Everyone in the Weyr is my responsibility,” T’ny says. “In your case, I don’t mind at all.” He takes a sip of juice and straightens slightly. “Speaking of which, we were having a conversation earlier. I seem to remember kissing, and mentions of romance and exclusivity.” 

It feels so long ago now. Like days have passed, not hours.

“You were saying you might ignore me sometimes.” 

“Like tonight.” T’ny nods.

“And other times you might push too fast—”

“Probably not tonight.” T’ny grins. “You look wrecked enough already, and I’m not doing much better.” His expression turns pensive. “I will try not to ignore you too often, but you might have to call me on it, sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know you’re busy. I didn’t expect to see you again tonight, honestly.” He’d been fully prepared to while his evening away in solitude, resting if he had to, maybe getting a start on his newly assigned list of duties if his energy returned. The portrait of R’skull, or sketches of shields and lances.

“We all needed a break,” T’ny sighs. “And food.” He fills a small bowl with rice and roast chicken and pickled radish. “And I wanted to check in with you, even if I have to go back and argue with F’ter and H’klas for Founders only know how long.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” S’teve means it more than he thought he would. It’s something he didn’t quite know he needed, this reassurance that T’ny cares even in the face of looming responsibility.

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” T’ny asks. “Boundaries? Pacing? How annoyed you’re going to be if I kiss you in public again?”

“I was enjoying the kissing,” S’teve admits, grinning. “And public is . . . alright. But private is better.”

“I can see that.” He leans in and kisses S’teve’s cheek. “Guess I’ll have to take what chances I can.”

S’teve shakes his head, humor bubbling through him.

“Eat, T’ny. I’m not sending you back to face belligerent Wingleaders still hungry.”

T’ny just smiles at him without speaking, but he does eat. The rest of the meal passes in quiet comments and long, comfortable silences. S’teve, at least, is too tired to search out more topics. When they’ve picked the tray clean T’ny kisses him again, slow and sweet, and bids him goodnight with a short bow. S’teve covers his glowlight and tries to rest.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. Moments of unconsciousness are plagued by visions of R’skull looming over him, knife raised, or the utter, complete silence of _between_. He wakes frequently.

Within hours Vanerith relays a command throughout the Weyr with the absolute authority of a senior queen: No one, no matter their rank, is to travel alone until the situation with R’skull is resolved. Even riders taking their dragons hunting are to do so with a minimum of three others, preferably in a mix of colors. S’teve is fairly certain if she could have ordered everyone to travel with a bronze she would have, but there are too many smaller dragons for that to be remotely reasonable. 

No one grumbles about the new restrictions in the days after. At least, no one in S’teve’s hearing. The loss of Torith has hit them all on a level that the loss of Ferroth didn’t seem to penetrate. Perhaps they thought Ferroth was dead, or that R’skull wasn’t a threat to anyone else. Perhaps it’s simply that a queen is so much rarer than a bronze. Either way, the stares S’teve attracts now are more wary that curious, and he spends more of his time secluded in his quarters, putting up primer for a mural along one wall and sketching the initial shapes in with charcoal. T’ny still visits, sometimes to stay and chat and sometimes to drag S’teve out into various workshops, or to the dining hall, or the greenhouse. The greenhouse is quickly becoming a favorite spot of S’teve’s, partially due to the novelty of seeing T’ny at peace in the space, partially because hardly anyone else visits it, and partially because T’ny tends to be more affectionate when they’re there. S’teve sometimes wonders if he’s forming an instinctive impulse to kiss T’ny in the presence of onion sprouts.

Later he can admit to himself that he probably spent more time than he needed to talking about flying and how he missed fighting Thread. He must have, because the morning after Healer Stephen declares him fit to fly, R’dy shows up at his door with K’rol in tow. Apparently, she’ll be the one putting him through routines and formation flying until he’s back up to full strength and able to join a Wing. R’dy is brusque and impersonal about the assignment, and about the delivery of fighting leathers Jarvis will be bringing later, and S’teve gets the impression he’s not entirely wanted in the man’s command.

“He’s just busy,” K’rol says after R’dy leaves them. “And maybe a little annoyed. Your blue’s nearly as big as Ivoth, _and_ you’re suddenly so close with T’ny _and_ you have new ideas for how to fight Thread. He’ll like you just fine if you prove you can think as well on dragonback as you do on the ground.”

“You’re not annoyed? Because I don’t want to be a burden.” S’teve watches her carefully, trying not to show how much this chance means to him. “If your Wing doesn’t want a random blue from the future, I understand.”

“I’m angry.” K’rol crosses her arms, her expression stern. “But I’m not angry at you. We all saw you injured, coming out of _between_. We all know what you told Jan and T’ny and the Wingleaders. If you’re a spy, you’re one that’s managed to teach a dragon to lie. But I don’t think you’re a spy. I think you want to get this R’skull just as much as I do.”

“I do.” S’teve promises. “For everything he’s done in my time and yours both. And I want to help you get Ferroth and Jess and Torith back, too.”

“Good.” K’rol nods. “Let’s get started.”

The training is demanding, hours spent in the air practicing long straight flights and wingtip turns and dives, but no more so than the regular practices he left behind. He and Libereth both have endurance and speed and skill to re-build after their long grounding, and they finish most sessions tired and sore. But K’rol is a tolerant taskmaster, and seems to have an almost uncanny sense of how much they can stand before exhaustion sets in. She and Radeth are precise and exact in every swoop and turn, even after hours aloft, and S’teve can easily see how she’s come to lead a half-Wing in the Weyrleader’s own Wing, despite only riding a dragon for three turns. She’s good company too, on the rare occasions when they can break for lunch and she isn’t called off for escort duty or an official Wing action.

And then comes the morning when she tells him they’re going to practice jumping _between_. Just the standard locations, but she’s going to fly with him to make sure he stays in the right time.

 _S’teve?_ Libereth calls for him as if he’s a long way off. _S’teve?_

“S’teve!” K’rol shouts, right next to his ear, and he blinks. She’s shaking his shoulder, frowning at him.

“You sort of locked up there.” She leans back, watching him like he might bolt or be ill. “Radeth says you weren’t even responding to Libereth.”

S’teve lets out a shaky breath.

“Sorry.” He closes his eyes and steadies himself.

 _Sorry, Libereth_ , he says.

 _You were scared._ Libereth lowers his head to be nearer S’teve’s face. _Why were you scared?_

“I haven’t really thought about going _between_ , much,” S’teve admits, to K’rol and Libereth and to himself too. He’s _dreamt_ about _between_ , but he hasn’t thought about it. Has avoided thinking about it.

K’rol gives him a long look. Her blue eyes are piercing. Weighing.

“We’ll start in the weyrbowl,” she says. “To the Star Stones, then the lake, then above the Great Hall. Radeth will give Libereth the coordinates. Then we’ll do it again, with you visualizing.” She pauses. “Unless you don’t want to? We can try another day.” 

“No, no. Today.” S’teve stands straight and squares his shoulders, trying to summon his courage. This is _essential_. A fighting rider who can’t go _between_ is all but useless to a Weyr _._ He can’t let fear stop him here.

“Let me know if you need to stop,” K’rol tells him.

“I will,” S’teve assures her. But he knows he won’t.

The first jumps is a shock. The cold hits him like a wall, and he thinks he might be screaming, but with no air and no sense of even his own body he can’t be sure. When they re-emerge above the Star Stones he’s gasping and shivering, clutching at his saddle so hard he thinks his fingertips might be bruised. He sucks in air on breaths that are half-sobs. There are tears on his cheeks. He has to resettle his goggles, wiping at his eyes surreptitiously.

 _We’re okay_ , Libereth tells him. _We’re okay._

K’rol waits until he straightens. There’s no judgment in what he can see of her expression, and she doesn’t mention his obvious turmoil. When he’s caught his breath she just asks, “Ready?” and waits for his nod.

The second try is just as bad. And the third. But S’teve powers though. He sets his jaw and tightens his grip on the fighting straps and visualizes the jumps, even though Libereth can probably do it without him. Star Stones, lake, Great Hall. Done.

“We can stop for the day,” K’rol offers. She and Radeth are a picture of patience. 

“No,” S’teve insists. “I need to do this.”

H’gann on Cyamith and Kl’ton on Glorenith join them for the longer jumps. No one is expecting a random set of training jumps to invite an ambush but Vanerith’s word is absolute. The riders at least seem less wary of him than many of their comrades. The dragons gleam in the afternoon sun, dark, polished bronze and bright, vibrant green and the deep, lurking blue of ocean depths. S’teve double-checks his flight cap and goggles, and his fighting straps, and takes a moment to rest his hand against Libereth’s neck and focus on his dragon’s mind. Libereth is eager, and confident, with no trace of S’teve own fears lingering in his mind.

S’teve nods to K’rol.

They jump. Fort Hold, above the drumtower. Fort Sea Hold, hovering above the gray waves of the wind-tossed harbor. Ruatha Hold, with its famous doors from the Ancients’ space craft. Ruatha River Hold, where the second rice harvest is just ending. Southern Boll, unaccountably warm for late autumn. The Masterweaver Hall. The Harper Hall. The Healer Hall. Back to Fort Weyr. Then again, one after another. By the end of it S’teve is shivering and exhausted, but composed. _Between_ is only for an instant. He can bear it for an instant.

“We’ll do the rest of the Weyrs tomorrow,” K’rol says as Radeth and Libereth hunt over the grounds east of the Weyrbowl. Kl’ton elects to stay mounted on Glorenith and keep watch, and Cyamith joins them—another set or eyes and a large bronze warning against possible attackers. “If you’re ready.”

“I will be.” He’s going to fight Thread. He’s going to make R’skull regret trying to grind more people under his heel. He’ll do whatever he has to. 

“No one would fault you for taking a day or more.” She’s staring out at the grounds, her profile backlit red by the sinking sun. H’gann crouches beside her, his eyes on the plain.

“It wouldn’t help,” S’teve insists. “I just need to face this.”

K’rol nods.

“Your choice.” She turns toward him, her expression softening. “You should know you’re doing well. Even R’dy agrees. Another few days and we’ll start you on full formations with the rest of the Wing. After that it’s just a matter of waiting for Thread to fall on our shift.”

S’teve looks up at the slate-gray sky; the chill wind tugs at his leathers and cap and tries to snake under his scarf.

“Is that likely to happen before spring?”

K’rol and H’gann share an amused look. 

“I don’t know what sort of patterns High Reaches sees,” K’rol says, “but Thread _always_ falls well into the eleventh month for our territory. Sometimes into the twelfth.”

“And then starts up again as soon as the second, if we’re unlucky, and the third if we’re not,” H’gann adds. “It’s Southern Boll that does it. Mildest climate on the continent.”

“I suppose that’s something to look forward to then,” S’teve says.

H’gann slaps him on the back, jovial.

“See Kl’ton?” He calls to the green rider as well, his hands flashing signs alongside his words. “I told you he was a real rider!”

***

The day of his first Threadflight as part of a Fort fighting Wing dawns dim and chilly, but K’rol assures him it will be warmer in Southern Boll. Warm enough for Thread to survive for at least a few weeks and consume most of the bamboo and flax cropland, should it fall freely.

T’ny intercepts him before he can make it to his quarters to harness Libereth.

“I stole your flight leathers,” he says, as if by way of explanation. “Come on.”

“ _Why_ did you steal my leathers?” S’teve manages to ask as T’ny drags him around a still-disorienting series of corners.

“They needed improvement,” is all the answer he gets.

They end up in the Lower Cavern, in what S’teve abruptly realizes must be T’ny’s dragonless living quarters.

“Here.” T’ny shoves the jacket into S’teve’s hands. It’s heavier than S’teve expects it to be and it clinks as he unfolds it. The shoulders, chest and most of the torso are covered in blue-glazed ceramic scales.

“I originally designed a whole set of this stuff, from hat to boots, to protect the ground crews,” T’ny says as S’teve holds it up. “But without the ability to go between there’s too much risk that Thread could burrow under the tiles and then be harder to kill.” He offers a wry smile as S’teve shrugs into the jacket. Despite all the scales, it sits easily on his shoulders. He hardly feels the extra weight. He thinks even the interior quilting might be improved: it feels thicker and softer than before, even over his wool under-vest and long-sleeve wool tunic. 

“It’ll save your leather.” T’ny runs his hands over the tiles, assessing. “Maybe reduce scars. I used to dream of being able to make the whole thing of metal, with mechanics to balance the weight and built-in flamethrowers. I did experiments with special alloys and everything. I even had sketches of a version that could help a man fly without a dragon. But the Smithhall called it frivolous. Said they would never consent to use so much ore on a tool for just one man.”

“Built in flamethrowers?” S’teve knows he must look skeptical. “I don’t know if that would reduce injuries or increase them.”

“There’s a learning curve,” T’ny admits. He tugs at the jacket collar and pushes S’teve’s hands away, doing up the buckles himself. “But I found it ultimately more convenient. I still have the prototype.” He gestures at what S’teve had assumed was an odd jumble of fighting straps tangled on the wall. “I’ll probably wear it today.”

“You’re fighting Thread?” S’teve tries to make the statement more neutral, covering his surprise. T’ny has only gone out during Threadfall a few times since S’teve’s known him, and never to directly combat Thread himself.

“With the queen’s wing.” T’ny looks a bit rueful. “Last fall of the season, probably. Jan wants to make an impression, show that we’re still a team, despite not knowing where Ferroth is.” He shuts his eyes and swallows hard, and S’teve puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. 

“We’ll find him.” He makes it a statement, putting as much confidence into the words as he can. “We can try after Threadfall, if you want. Southern Boll is where it happened, right?”

T’ny nods. “Jan offered too, and R’dy and B’nner agreed. During and after Threadfall, Vanerith will call for him. Ivoth and anyone else in the wings who wants to will join too. But I doubt we’ll find him there. If R’skull is as clever as you say, he won’t go anywhere near Southern Boll now.” 

He tugs on the bottom of S’teve’s jacket to make sure it’s settled, all brisk efficiency again, then grabs another bundle from his workbench: padded wherry-leather riding trousers, with more scales over the outer thigh and calf, matching the red pattern on T’ny’s own.

“I was just going to wear these,” S’teve protests. The trousers he has on are already wool-lined wherry leather. More feels like overkill the Weyr can hardly afford with so many new riders to outfit in the coming spring.

“Those are quilted.” T’ny is already striding away, grabbing his own jacket and helmet from hooks near his bed. “They’ll keep you warmer.”

S’teve has a sudden memory of waking up shivering, even with Libereth’s warmth and a pile of down quilts and a heated stone at the foot of his bed, _between_ forefront in his mind. He changes without protest, watching T’ny buckle up his own jacket and helmet and then sling what turns out to be a sort of harness off the wall and over his shoulders. There seem to be a lot of buckles and thin steel straps involved, with what S’teve thinks must be smaller forms of the usual flamethrower canisters attached to the forearm and leg pieces.

“Can I help?” He crosses the room, his own preparations complete. 

T’ny looks up, as if he’d forgotten S’teve was there. S’teve is fairly certain he’s stuck his tongue between his teeth in concentration. 

“Uh. Sure.” T’ny looks down at himself, then back at S’teve. “I mean, it’s not necessary, but it would probably go faster. You do the legs, I’ll do arms and torso?”

It does go quicker with two sets of hands. S’teve tightens straps and levers buckles closed at intervals up T’ny’s left leg and then his right, securing two long thin canisters to his outer thighs and making sure nothing can jostle loose. He double-checks every buckle, making sure it’s secure and not about to snap open and cause T’ny problems midflight, until all that’s left is the last few linkages on T’ny’s left arm. T’ny fiddles with it for a moment before holding out the arm with a resigned expression. 

“Most of this is just for weight distribution,” he says as S’teve slots thin wire hooks through delicate steel eyelets along the inner side of his wrist. “The important parts are the canisters, the pin and these levers.”

He demonstrates with his right hand, holding it palm out, off to the side and away from both of them. As he spreads his fingers wide and pulls the pin out with his thumb S’teve can see the levers around his palm compress. A stream of fire shoots out of a small copper tube to one side of the wrist, and T’ny grins at him. 

“Less fuel wasted, more precise control. And more satisfying than a normal flamethrower.” 

“Sure,” S’teve agrees, though he’s not surprised the Mastersmiths didn’t like the design. Even over flight leathers, the harness looks like it was built for T’ny and no one else. It’s sleek somehow. Polished. Like something the Founders might have made, had they known there was Thread to fight, not something crafted for modern Pernese. T’ny, the inventor, born seven hundred turns too late. T’ny, fighting Thread all on his own, with no mind-linked dragon to keep him safe and take him _between_. 

The thought makes his heart ache.

On impulse, he raises T’ny’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. He feels utterly ridiculous, a flush rising up under his collar, but T’ny only looks surprised. Perhaps fond. 

“Take care,” S’teve says. “On dragonback and _between_. I—look forward to seeing you after.”

“You too.” T’ny shifts their hands and presses a kiss into S’teve’s palm, then presses S’teve’s fingers closed around it. “Be safe, S’teve.”

***

S’teve can feel the tension in Libereth’s limbs as he mounts. Even his dragon’s mind is thrumming with anticipation and excitement.

“Look at you, eager as a weyrling.” K’rol grins at him from atop Radeth on the ledge of a nearby cavern entrance. Beyond her S’teve can see Kl’ton, B’nner, K’tess and a number of dragons he doesn’t know already circling the bowl, waiting for the command to form up.

“It’s been a few turns.” He pulls on his gloves and makes sure his cap is securely fastened under his chin. “I don’t feel quite so much a rider without Thread to fight.”

“Guess that’s something we’ll never have to worry about.” K’rol settles her flight goggles over her face, looking to the sky. Libereth trills in excitement, and Radeth joins him.

 _Form up!_ Libereth relays, and launches for the sky. The Wings assemble quickly, and R’dy relays the final coordinates and takes them _between_. 

There’s a smell to Thread that S’teve had completely forgotten. A smell like acid eating into metal and scorched pine resin. Libereth flames a small patch of the silvery tendrils and turns his head back, mouth open for more firestone. Again. Again. They finish one sweep of the fall and jump _between_ , above the cloud cover. Into a small clump of Thread. 

Libereth flinches, growling, and then they’re _between_ , and then S’teve is brushing ashy dead strands of Thread off his arms and shoulders. T’ny’s ceramic tiles jingle lightly, but seem to have done their job: there is no twist of blackened leather to mark where the Thread landed.

Libereth flames the rest of the offending clump from a better angle and they move on. Twice more Thread curls on Libereth’s wingtip and shoulder and once on S’teve’s knee, ever-reaching for the life inside them both, but each time they pop _between_ before any real damage can be done. They fly from one end of the Wing to the other and back again, until S’teve runs out of firestone. They mark a slow circle below the line of browns and bronzes until Kl’ton and Glorenith can bring them additional supplies. Above them, the queen’s wing passes in golden glory, flamethrowers at the ready for any Thread slipping closer to the fields below.

 _Vanerith wants to know if we’re stealing all the Thread_ , Libereth tells him. _I told her we left the rest a few scraps._

 _I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself_ , S’teve replies. And then Kl’ton swoops close enough to hand him another bag of firestone and they’re off again. 

They fly through the first and second shifts of smaller dragons, rest for the third and rejoin the fight for the fourth. As the hours stretch S’teve’s shoulders grow tense and his goggles smoky, and his ears seem full of the endless noise of wingbeats and dragon flame. By the time the Thread moves out to fall harmlessly into the ocean Libereth is flagging a little, but he bugles in triumph when R’dy calls an end to the fight.

There’s no sign of Ferroth, but T’ny doesn’t look as disappointed as S’teve expects when the search is called off. Perhaps he truly wasn’t anticipating any other outcome.

Back at the Weyr, R’dy approaches him as he’s dismounting. He’s obviously tired, but he seems friendlier than before. S’teve can’t help but notice that he wears T’ny’s modified leathers too.

“I’m hearing tales of you all up and down the Wing,” he says. “You’ve certainly impressed K’rol and B’nner and a whole long list of riders who say you and Libereth have all the flame and endurance of a brown and still the agility of a blue. Sounds like you put that extra size to good use.”

“We certainly try.” S’teve brushes at soot on Libereth’s foreleg. “I’ll admit we were a bit rusty at the start.”

R’dy shakes his head.

“You didn’t do any worse than the two-turn-old pairs, and you flew harder and longer than most of my oldest veterans. Kl’ton wanted it known you personally saved him and Glorenith from a bad Threadscore, which I’m sure we’re all thankful for. The Weyr gets a bit more high strung when those two are grounded.”

He holds out his hand, and S’teve shakes it.

“I’m glad you were with us today. Another few flights like that one and I’ll put you in charge of a half wing for drills. For Thread and your dragon combat routines both, since we’ll probably need those sooner than I’d like. We both know you have the mind for it.”

“Thank you.” S’teve tries to keep his smile in check. The topic doesn’t warrant celebration, but he’s glad to have R’dy’s approval all the same. “We’ll try not to disappoint you.”

“From what T’ny says, you hardly disappoint at anything. And speaking of T’ny—” R’dy gives him a stern look. “If I find out you’re stringing him along I will find a way to make you regret it, no matter how good you are at fighting Thread.”

“I’m not.” S’teve raises his hands, palms bared. “I just… really like him.”

R’dy stares at him for a moment longer before nodding.

“He does have that effect on people.” He turns toward his dragon. “Ivoth is hungry, so I should go take care of that. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

“Sure,” S’teve agrees. “Happy to.”

He makes sure Libereth has suffered no lasting Threadscore and sees him washed and oiled and slumped dozing in their personal quarters, and is just shucking off his cap and jacket when T’ny calls from outside his door hanging. When he pushes aside the heavy cloth he finds T’ny dressed in loose gray trousers and a thin, undyed linen undershirt, holding a bowl of sweetsand and a plain towel. His hair is still braided up, despite the fact that he’s clearly heading for the Weyr baths, but there are small strands loosening and curling free of the plaits. There are smudges of soot on his face and shirt and one hand is bandaged, like maybe he burned himself, and he looks more tired than anything else. Still, he summons a smile for S’teve.

“I was going to invite you to join me,” he says. “If you want.”

S’teve blinks at him. He had certainly been intending to visit the baths, and had, in truth, been expecting to see T’ny there, along with every other rider in the Flight. T’ny must see his confusion.

“In the Weyrleader’s quarters,” he elaborates. 

Oh. _Oh_.

“Fort has a bath in the Weyrleader’s quarters?”

T’ny huffs something that’s half laugh, half just blowing air. “Does High Reaches not? No, doesn’t matter. What matters is that I happen to know for a fact that no one is using it right now, so if you wanted some privacy . . .” he trails off, giving S’teve a questioning look. “Or if not, we can go to the main baths,” he amends. 

“No, that’s—fine,” S’teve manages to say. The memory of T’ny shirtless in the lake is encroaching on his thoughts. He makes himself look at T’ny’s face. At the faintly amused tilt of his lips and his neat little beard and the way his eyelashes frame his eyes in the hall’s light— “Let me just get my things.”

He ducks back into his quarters and stands stock still for a moment, trying to remember what he even needs. A towel. Sweetsand. To be wearing less leather. 

_Dragons are not this fussy_ , Libereth says, watching him with half closed eyes as he rushes around the rooms, trying to pry his jacket and pants and boots off while also finding a towel that doesn’t have dragon rubbing oil on it.

 _Dragons have mating flights_. _Humans don’t._ S’teve has to stop and shuck his pants properly to make sure he doesn’t trip, then locate the pair of thin drawstring trousers Jarvis had found for him early in his convalescence. He finds them neatly folded, and just as neatly fallen under his bed, the dark blue dye well-concealed in the shadows.

 _Mating flights are simple,_ Libereth says. _Humans could be more simple._

 _That would certainly solve some problems_. S’teve finally locates a clean towel and turns to look his dragon over carefully. _Do you need anything else tonight?_

 _No_. Libereth sticks his tongue out just slightly and grumbles with dragon laughter. _But you should find him next time a green rises_.

“Not really the experience I’m looking for,” S’teve says to himself, scooping up a small supply of sweetsand. As heady as dragon-lust sex can be, he prefers to remember his partners with more clarity. But if T’ny _wanted to_ — He shoves the thought to the back of his mind, alongside the niggling little voice insisting that an invitation to a private bath is _definitely_ an invitation to other things. Even if actual bathing will feature. He doesn’t _know_ that, he doesn’t _know_ what T’ny intends at all and he will be perfectly happy to accept a relaxing hot bath if that’s all that’s on offer. Right.

He pushes aside the door hanging and steps into the hall. T’ny is leaning casually against the wall to his left, and he turns with a smile.

“Ready?”

S’teve nods and T’ny moves toward the ramp to the upper floors, walking just fast enough that S’teve has to hurry a little to keep up. It’s a long climb to the Weyrleader’s personal quarters, past whole sections of rooms S’teve hasn’t had reason to visit. The halls are busy with riders but not crowded like the Lower Cavern, with most of the traffic moving down towards the common areas. They get a few appraising looks along the way, but the few who speak offer only casual greetings. 

“You alright to go outside?” T’ny nods at what S’teve realizes is actually a doorway, neatly covered with a black-and-white tapestry depicting the night sky. “The outer stairs are more direct.”

“Sounds good,” he says. The evening chill hits them as soon as they’re past the tapestry, and they climb two flights before the stairs open to the stars.

The Weyrbowl is quiet, with only the watchwhers and a few dragons still moving around under the late autumn moon. The stairs are broader and more even than the ones at High Reaches, perhaps a sign of the greater care taken in cutting Pern’s first Weyr out of the rock, and they even have small score lines cut deep into the edges, to prevent slips in wet weather. 

“And here we are.” T’ny ducks inside an open cavern, gesturing for Steve to follow.

The sunning ledge is enormous, and the stone dragon couch is even longer. But it would have to be, S’teve realizes, to house not only the largest and fastest bronzes of this Pass, but _all_ potential passes into the future. Beyond the dragon’s space, the actual quarters are not much different than S’teve’s. A little more spacious, perhaps. The furniture is finer, carved of stone and polished hardwoods, and there’s an extra table dedicated to maps and the wall hangings are very evidently treasures of Fort’s history. But other than that there’s just a blanket-covered bed and a small desk with single stool, same as any dragonrider’s rooms. There are no small personal effects, he realizes after a moment. T’ny must have moved everything to his Lower Cavern quarters.

And of course, S’teve’s quarters don’t have an actual physical door set in one wall that leads to a private bathing area. That is certainly a perk of position he’s never seen before. T’ny bows him into the room with a goofy grin and shuts the door behind him. S’teve isn’t quite sure what he’d expected. A marvel of Founder technology perhaps, with water on demand, but the bath is a standard Weyr bathing pool hot spring, clearly hotter at one end than the other. Within seconds S’teve feels warmer, the steam rising around him gently. He turns to find T’ny standing away from the door, towel already hung on a waiting hook, watching him. He’s holding his bowl of sweetsand in both hands as if to make sure they’re occupied.

“Okay?” he asks. “We can still go downstairs, if you prefer.”

“No, no, this is—this is perfect.” S’teve hangs up his own towel, as if that can reassure T’ny further. “I would like to spend time with you. Without an audience.”

T’ny raises his eyebrows, humor crinkling in the corners of his eyes.

“Any particular intentions you have in mind?”

S’teve opens his mouth. Closes it. Swallows. What he _wants_ is to know that T’ny is as invested in this, this _flirtation_ as he is. And he wants to kiss T’ny more, and to touch more of his skin, and to show T’ny he _cares_. That he’s not only interested in the press of lips and skin.

He also wants to take T’ny as he is, smudged with ash and smelling of charcoal, and pound him into the bed in the other room. But they’re not there yet. They’re not. It’s not like they’ve talked about where this is going really, not beyond T’ny’s repetitions of _Stop me if I push too fast_.

But maybe they could get there.

“I want you to push faster,” he says, and T’ny fumbles his bowl, spilling some of the sand before he gets it back under control. 

“I . . . can do that,” he says, setting the bowl down and straightening up. “And in case I haven’t been clear, you’re welcome to push back, too.”

There’s a handful of heartbeats where neither of them moves, and then S’teve reaches for the hem of T’ny’s shirt and T’ny steps in close, angling for a kiss. He laughs against S’teve’s lips and kisses him soundly before shifting back so S’teve can pull the shirt over his head. 

“Fair’s fair,” he quips, pulling at S’teve’s own undershirt, and then the collar catches in S’teve’s braids and they’re both laughing as T’ny untangles leather laces and twists of braid; kissing and giggling as they each try to remove the other’s trousers at once, pressing close and kissing new patches of skin until they’re sprawled together on the warm, melt-smooth floor, legs entwined as T’ny kisses his way along S’teve’s shoulder. His hand strokes down S’teve’s chest and over his stomach, just skirting his hip bones, and then slips lower.

And S’teve freezes. T’ny draws his hand back.

“Too fast?”

“No,” S’teve says, because it’s not that, exactly. “No, just . . . well, maybe—I do want—”

T’ny takes his hand and kisses his knuckles, then presses S’teve’s hand to his own chest, just over the curve of his scars.

“Why don’t you take the lead,” he says. 

S’teve starts slow, tracing his hands over T’ny’s shoulders and biceps and down to his wrists, and then on over his hips and down his thighs and calves. He touches, and kisses, and T’ny doesn’t seem to mind the slow pace. He doesn’t even mind when S’teve takes more time to unwind T’ny’s hair from its ties and let it fall loose to his shoulders. He watches S’teve intently, eyes dark, and he moves when S’teve nudges, and he makes encouraging little noises, and he kisses back with an open-mouthed wantonness that dissolves a lot of S’teve’s hesitance into heat and breath and pressing need.

After they’re both spent T’ny urges him into the warm water and undoes his braids with gentle hands, and scrubs his back with sweetsand, and presses more kisses along his shoulders. S’teve does his best to return the favor, rubbing sweetsand lightly over as much of T’ny as he can reach until the movements become languid and slow and T’ny is doing more leaning into him than standing on his own. Together they drift toward the hotter end of the spring, letting the steam and heat unwind the deeper aches that come of fighting Thread. When they finally heave themselves out of the spring S’teve feels like the heat is stored in his bones, making them heavier. For the first time since he woke up from _between_ , he feels entirely grounded.

“Are you staying?” T’ny asks, his towel draped over his head and shoulders. “To sleep?”

S’teve stops rubbing his hair with his own towel, then starts again, more thoughtfully. He’s certainly had lovers who left when they were sated, who wanted nothing more. It’s never been his own impulse, though. Even a casual flirtation deserves a night of comfort, and T’ny is . . . more than that. Even if they still haven’t talked about it.

He wants to force the conversation. Wants to ask if T’ny feels the same bond growing between them, if he’s looking at this as a momentary distraction or a pleasurable diversion or something more real. The impulse rises inside him, insistent as the tide, and then he looks again at T’ny’s watchful expression, at the slump of his shoulders and his legs still dangling in the water, and the fight drains out of him. A warm bed with T’ny beside him is all he really has energy for, at this point. Perhaps the morning will offer a better opportunity.

“Is that an invitation?” he asks instead.

“Of course.” T’ny looks surprised at the question, as if it never occurred to him that he might kick S’teve out.

“Then yes.” S’teve smiles, slightly wistful as a deeper truth twists in his heart than his words will imply. “I’d love to stay.”

* * *

The New Turn Gather at Fort is always a large affair, but Lord Luke and Lady Jessica have apparently worked hard to make this turn unique. T’ny can see multiple new murals on Hold buildings and long, intricately embroidered banners hang from every available outcropping. There are tiny red, yellow, blue and green glow globes strung between buildings and market stalls and glowing braziers set out at regular intervals for extra warmth. A band has already started playing. He can smell sweet berry bubbly pies and rich spicy curry on the wind.

Jan tugs on his jerkin, her nose wrinkling as peppermint wafts between them.

“You should have aired these out more,” she chides, straightening his shoulder knots and smoothing the bronze Weyrleader’s tassel between her fingers. “It’s not as though the date is a surprise.”

“I didn’t want to come.” T’ny reminds her. “I was perfectly willing to stay at the Weyr and cross-reference scout reports. Or work with S’teve on more hand-to-hand exercises.” His forays outside the Weyr since losing Ferroth have produced mixed reactions from craftsmen and holders alike. Nothing like the quiet pity he sometimes gets from other riders, but more confusion. A rider without a dragon doesn’t really fit anywhere. A Weyrleader without a dragon even less so. And somehow, against all logic, Ferroth’s loss has a sharper edge with fewer dragons around. He’s not entirely sure how he’s going to keep himself occupied until some other rider is ready to return to the Weyr. Perhaps he’ll be able to monopolize the Mastersmith or the Masterglazier for part of the evening.

“Everyone needs time away from paperwork,” Jan tugs at his jerkin again, inspecting the vivid red dye of the cloth and metallic detailing on the button as if some part of it might embarrass her.

“You should re-tailor these this winter,” she comments. “Thejerkin and doublet are both too snug in the shoulders.”

“I’ve been doing more smithing than riding.” T’ny catches her hands as she reaches again for his collar. “Why are you worrying over this? You said yourself there’s no talks scheduled, only greetings. Does your planned surprise involve a portrait commission? Should I go trim my beard again? Re-do my hair?”

Jan looks exasperated with him but any reply she can make is forestalled by the appearance of Lord Luke and Lady Jessica, with Masterharper Blair and Masterhealer Carter behind them. 

“Time to be _official_ ,” T’ny whispers at her, and she bites back a grin and pokes him in the side. When she turns to greet Fort’s Holders and Mastercraftsmen her smile is perfect and professional. 

T’ny pays just enough attention to know when to nod, when to say the required pleasantries. It’s an almost formalized tradition these last few turns, first as a Wingleader standing at attention, then as Weyrleader at Jan’s side. The Holders thank the Weyr for their service against Thread and present the Weyrleaders and Wingleaders with gifts: jewelry, finely woven cloth, healing salves and freshly copied songs for the Weyr’s records. And marks, of course. Stamped with both the Harperhall mark and Healerhall mark. Full marks, half-marks, quarters and eighths, to spend in the Gather Market. 

Masterharper Blair relates the schedule of events for the evening and the pleasantries are concluded. There’s a lot of bowing and mutual gratitude, and then Jan and T’ny are free to distribute the gifts among their Wingleaders, who will in turn spread gifts and marks among those of their Wings in attendance.

Jan nudges his shoulder and jerks her chin towards the artisan stalls.

“There’s your surprise.”

T’ny searches the crowd and eyes the stalls, looking for anything that might be deemed unusual. There’s a carpenter showing off a clock and something else with intricate gears and a potter with what looks like a new metallic glaze but—ah. He catches sight of S’teve’s blond head in the crowd, and then, as the lines and groups shift about, S’teve’s outfit. He should have known, really. His occupation with S’teve is probably the talk of the Weyr, given how many conversations die when they enter a room together.

That his mood immediately improves, that he’s now looking forward to the evening and already spinning up ideas for what they could do together, that even the ache of Ferroth’s absence is somewhat ablated are all things he’s trying not to think about. After all the sleepless nights he’s spent since Ferroth’s capture, the peace he’s able to achieve with S’teve is sorely necessary.

“Don’t tell me you made him a full set of Gather clothes yourself,” he says, looking back to Jan.

She waves dismissively. “Wanda and Jarvis helped, but it wasn’t difficult. We had plenty of cloth and he deserves to have something nice. It’s hardly his fault he doesn’t have his old set.”

T’ny refrains from mentioning that whatever S’teve’s former Gather finery looked like, he doubts it benefited from anyone as deft with a needle as Jan. What little he’s seen of S’teve’s sense of fashion seems to generally consist of “is everything covered” and “are there any holes.” The finery Jan’s dressed him in is cut along the same lines as his flight leathers, emphasizing the broad stretch of his shoulders and the long, lithe strength of his legs.

“Go on,” Jan urges him, smiling. “Have fun.”

T’ny spies P’dan waiting patiently behind her and takes his leave with a bow just exaggerated enough to make her laugh. He catches up with S’teve near the freshly swept courtyard that will be the main dance floor soon. Up close in better lighting he notes that Jan has been as particular in her color choices as in her tailoring. S’teve’s jacket is bright blue finespun wool, just a few shades lighter than the knots he wears for his dragon, and instead of embroidery she’s embellished the edges with soft gray ribbons.

“Who did your hair?” he asks.

S’teve turns and smiles in greeting. He raises a self-conscious hand to his braids.

“Jan, mostly. She seemed to enjoy it.”

“She was a weaver before she got Searched, did she tell you? She used to design Gather gowns and suits for all the Lord and Lady Holders. Now she contents herself with whoever she can get her hands on.”

S’teve’s smile widens. “Did she get her hands on you too?”

“Of course.” T’ny straightens his shoulders despite the fact that it makes his collar gap open. “I added the metalwork, but the rest is all her.”

“It looks good.” S’teve nods and swallows quickly, which is just a little bit gratifying. “You look—very nice.”

“You’re looking pretty handsome yourself.” T’ny smiles as a flush spreads over S’teve’s freckles. “I think I better claim my dances now, before there’s a rush.”

S’teve takes his hand, tangling their fingers together and squeezing lightly.

“I wasn’t planning on dancing with anyone else tonight,” he says in that firm and honest way he has, and T’ny can feel heat rising in his own cheeks. It’s almost embarrassing, the simple ways S’teve can utterly disarm him. Almost. He coughs.

“Well, in that case you’ll have to peruse the stalls with me first. I have a whole stack of marks to spend and you are in desperate need of spoiling.”

“No, T’ny, I don’t—”

“Some of these should really be yours anyway,” T’ny tells him, tugging on their joined hands in the general direction of the market. “You’re part of the Weyr, you fought Thread, you’re training others. It’s not as if you’ve been sitting idle.”

S’teve’s mouth clicks closed. “I’m not buying anything that costs over a quarter Mark,” he says.

“Excellent.” T’ny presses a pouch of coins into S’teve’s free hand and refuses to take it back. “Food first. It’s never good to barter on an empty stomach.”

They get meat pies to start and wash them down with fresh cider as they wander through the stalls. There are fewer artisans than last turn, T’ny notes, though whether that’s down to the string of attacks on Holds and Crafthalls or simply a turn of fewer journeymen walking the promotion tables is difficult to say. His favorite cobbler is still in business at least, and he secures a new pair of boots for himself and a second for S’teve, who only protests for a moment: When the cobbler hears that S’teve has one fitted pair to his name he joins T’ny’s insistence. 

While S’teve is being measured T’ny finds emerald earrings for Pepper and a gold necklace for Wanda at one stall and bargains for an opal-inlaid knife for Jarvis at another, sneaking in a few other small gifts along the way. Small obsidian knives for the older Weyrbrats, embroidered edging for the new riders to add to their Gather clothes, soft gloves for the younger children with birthdays coming up and a massive order of tanned and dyed leather for the Weyr as a whole. Barring a specialty order or two, he’s promised delivery to the Weyr within the week. 

When the cobbler releases him S’teve purchases small things: a set of copper styluses for wax work, a pretty stretch of silver and chrome wire braid for Libereth’s fighting straps, a new thick leather belt and pouch, a small collection of paint pigments in bright colors. When they reach the row of paper and parchment makers they both spend more than they probably should. T’ny orders scrolls and journals and reams of paper in every variety he can find for both himself and the Weyr, and S’teve lingers over each proffered variety, rubbing rag paper and papyrus and finely scraped vellum between his fingers and selecting just a few sheets of each for his personal use. T’ny is just finishing up haggling over a loosely bound booklet of beautifully fine rag paper when the band strikes up a dancing tune. 

“Shall we?” he asks.

“I should really stow these away,” S’teve says, holding his carefully wrapped purchases gingerly.

“I can solve that problem.” T’ny waves at a familiar figure. “Pietro!”

The runner’s head jerks up, attentive, and he’s quick to join them.

“Can you take S’teve’s things to Libereth for him?” T’ny asks.

“Oh, no, I can do it myself,” S’teve insists.

“I’m happy to.” Pietro nods, and in the face of their combined enthusiasm S’teve caves. T’ny hands Pietro a half-mark for the trouble.

“That was generous,” S’teve notes as the boy runs off. T’ny shrugs, self-conscious, because it probably was rather a lot for such a simple task but he has little need for the marks himself. 

“The Lord Holders were overgenerous this turn. I think they want to be sure we don’t resent the loss of about half our tithes too keenly.” He gives himself a little mental shake and offers S’teve a short bow, one hand extended.

“May I have this dance?” he asks. He means it to be cheerful, perhaps cheeky, but his voice falters near the end and the phrase comes out much more serious than he intended. For a breathless second he can hear his own heart beat loud in his ears, like he’s stepped _between_ all on his own.

And then S’teve takes his hand, his eyes shining bright in the glowlight, and he says, “Of course, Weyrleader,” in a way that makes T’ny’s mind go quiet for a moment.

They make it to the dance floor just as the second song begins, a group dance that sees them switching partners for turn after turn until they’re returned to each other, and then another that doesn’t have pairings at all, and then finally a couple’s song, accompanied by a singer whose voice is as high and sweet as the stars. [They dance perhaps a shade closer than they should, but still only their hands are touching as they step and glide around the courtyard.](https://www.deviantart.com/kaitovsheiji/art/The-dance-774767902) At first T’ny is aware of the watching audience, the other dancers—including Jan and P’dan and R’dy and K’rol and a number of other Fort Weyr riders—but after their second round of the floor his self-consciousness fades, replaced by the touch of cool night air on his cheeks and S’teve’s warm palm against his; by swooping moments of spinning apart and coming back together, the limning of light over S’teve’s brow and his impossibly fair eyelashes and the enticing curve of his lips, and the persistent, rising voices of flutes and harps and drums. When the song ends he hardly remembers where he is. As the last echoes of the music fade away he slips his fingers between S’teve’s and draws him closer, the drums still resounding in his veins.

“Come with me,” he murmurs. “Come away.”

S’teve hesitates, indecision in the widening of his eyes and the quiet of his breathing, but then the band starts up again, a quick-paced group dance, and he nods.

T’ny has been to Fort Hold enough times to know a few dark corners, and he’s been to enough Gathers to know that most of them will already be occupied. Instead, he leads S’teve away from the main Hall, to the garden at the back of the local smith’s forge. The space is deserted, the fire banked to embers in favor of the festivities. There’s a bit more selfishness in the choice than just privacy, T’ny can admit to himself. He wouldn’t mind smelling charcoal and the tang of cooling metal on S’teve skin when they return to the Weyr. Wouldn’t protest the reminder of _home_ , before dragons entered his life. 

For all his hesitations, S’teve is an eager lover outside the public eye. As soon as T’ny stops under the grape-vine arbor and reels him in he pushes closer, his hands steady on T’ny’s hips, pressing him back until his shoulder blades find the wall of the forge chimney, still warm with the day’s work. He presses a swift, soft kiss to T’ny’s lips, lingering just long enough for T’ny to open his mouth wider, expecting something deeper, and then he slips away for more kisses, a whole line down his neck to the gap at his collar, and T’ny is left gasping in their wake, tangling his hands in S’teve braids as if just having a handhold will steady the weakness in his legs. 

“Your jerkint,” S’teve says, his voice low and gravelly, lips brushing his skin as he speaks, “has been driving me crazy all evening.” He looks up, meeting T’ny’s eyes as he undoes said jerkin’s top clasp. “I mean, I knew when Jan convinced me to attend tonight that you would look good.” He moves to the next clasp. T’ny swallows hard and tries to cling to the solid feel of the bricks at his back and the ground under his feet. “You always look good, so dressed up you would look—but I didn’t expect to be staring at this—patch of skin—” The jerkin falls open, and S’teve bends to kiss his neck again, sliding lips and tongue along the hollow of T’ny’s throat and collarbone as his hands press up along T’ny’s ribs. The noise that escapes T’ny’s mouth can only be described as a whine. His left hand slips down to clutch blindly at S’teve’s shoulder. 

“Come—up here,” he pants, trying to gently urge S’teve higher by grip on both head and shoulder, “and let me _kiss_ you—”

S’teve grins against his lips, clearly pleased with his handiwork, and T’ny hardly cares. He’s too busy kissing S’teve, too busy kissing him with as much of the wire-tight yearning and pulsing drums in his veins as he can, too busy sliding his left hand down the smooth wool of S’teve’s jacket to his elbow, and then to his waist and over the thicker wool of his trousers to his ass, jerking him closer, until he can feel the heavy heat of S’teve’s cock pressing against his own. S’teve melts into him a bit, his limbs going soft and sloppy, his hands on T’ny’s ribs gentling to fingertips. T’ny presses his advantage, licking his way into S’teve’s mouth and holding his head in place with gentle firmness, grinding _closer_ until S’teve’s nails rake at his skin through all his layers. 

They break apart just long enough to each reach for the others’ belt, a breathless laugh passing between them before they’re kissing again, quick fluttery kisses that shift into slow sweetness like sugar on his tongue, unhurried and insistent as the sun’s rising. He’s just about managed to lever S’teve’s belt undone with one hand when there’s a sound of scraping of gravel and footsteps in a quick pattern.

“Weyrleader, I have a message—sorry!” 

For a moment T’ny stares straight into S’teve’s eyes and the world is so quiet he thinks he can hear embers settling in the forge and tundlebugs walking on woody grapevines. And then S’teve sighs and Pern starts spinning again, and T’ny can see a runner over his shoulder, a dark-haired lad in Fort livery who he doesn’t recognize. S’teve stands perfectly still and studies the chimney brickwork while T’ny extracts himself and pulls his shirt and jacket straight. The runner has turned his back but he’s still _there_. 

“What is it,” T’ny asks.

“The Lord Holder requests your presence,” the boy says, so fast the words almost jumble together. “He’s waiting in the music parlor.”

T’ny sighs and pulls S’teve’s jacket straight too.

“You might as well come along,” he says. “Luke doesn’t stand on ceremony.”

S’teve nods, his expression twisting into rueful acceptance. None of them speak on the way back to the Hall.

As it turns out, it’s not only Luke waiting for T’ny. O’din of Benden and several finely dressed riders and holders T’ny doesn’t recognize are gathered in Fort’s lavishly-appointed music room.

“Weyrleader,” Luke greets T’ny, “And Weyrwoman,” he adds as Jan arrives behind them with P’dan and H’gann and B’nner in tow. “We’ve just has some distressing news from Benden. Weyrleader O’din says their own Gather was attacked by armed holdless criminals and . . .” He hesitates, as if he can’t quite fathom the words. “Some of them rode dragons.”

“Zola and Zemo. I sat on the trials myself,” Lady Walters of Benden says, her expression grave. “Weyrleader O’din agrees and has received reports of at least two other offenders riding bronzes.”

“Thieves and murderers,” O’din says. “Not men I had expected to survive exile, nor men I would have ever credited with attracting a dragon. And there is something else. The dragons did not respond to any entreaties or commands from my Ikoyath. Even with queen Wocath’s influence, they refused to turn aside or be reasoned with. Two of my riders were killed, and another disappeared when they left. Several of our most promising weyrlings are missing also. I do not know if they went willingly.”

“I have more news,” Jan says. “Jess and Torith have returned to the Weyr.”

“Your missing queen?” O’din asks. “Perhaps she has news of our enemy’s stronghold.”

“That’s what we’re hoping,” Jan agrees. “Lord Luke, I apologize, but we really must return to the Weyr as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Luke looks troubled. “Do please let us know if there is any way we can lend assistance.”

“We will,” Jan nods, and they take their leave. Many guests are still dancing and celebrating, but the whole of the Gather seems muted, as if everyone knows something is wrong. The group of quickly moving riders garners a lot of stares.

“I’ll talk to Jess,” Jan tells T’ny as they approach Vanerith and the other waiting dragons. “Will you see O’din and his riders situated?”

“Certainly,” T’ny agrees. 

“We’ll have to act quickly if she can give us a location,” Jan muses. “S’teve, are any of your charges ready to face another dragon pair?”

“I have a list of riders who can be depended on not to hurt themselves,” S’teve says. “But how they’ll fare in direct combat isn’t a judgment I can make.” 

Jan nods.

“Give the list to R’dy.” She turns to the Wingleader. “You’ll get them kitted out and ready to fly?”

“As quickly as possible,” R’dy promises. 

They mount in efficient silence and T’ny climbs up behind S’teve on Libereth. For a moment he feels strange about it, like there should have been a little more discussion around his first time on dragonback with S’teve, but S’teve doesn’t seem to notice. He just holds out extra fighting straps as if they do this frequently. The closeness T’ny had felt earlier, the connection between them, is still there on some level. Enough that he doesn’t feel quite as awkward as he usually does strapping up behind Jan on Vanerith, or R’dy on Ivoth. He and S’teve fit together like they’ve done this hundreds of times. Even Libereth’s launch is smoother than usual.

He calls for Ferroth in the handful of heartbeats they spend _between_. Even knowing it won’t make a difference, knowing he did the same thing earlier this same evening along the same path, he has to try.

He doesn’t hear anything before they reemerge. The twist of disappointment in his chest is familiar now, if no less painful. He nods his thanks as S’teve drops him off and throws himself into organizing a ready room for O’din’s riders as a distraction, then changes into his Thread leathers and stops by the forge. Then he hunts down R’dy and the rest of the preparing fighters. Only a few of the lance tips are finished, but they’ll be more effective than bamboo lances alone and there are only a half-dozen riders trained in their use yet anyway. The leather-covered shields are more complete. Kl’ton turns down both in favor of his hunting bow, but S’teve, R’dy, K’tess and H’gann accept the weapons gratefully.

He still thinks actual armor would be better, but even if he had the resources to outfit a whole Wing, he hasn’t had time to make it. S’teve and R’dy at least are wearing their scaled flight leathers.

After an hour he goes in search of Jan. He finds her in Jess and Torith’s quarters, sitting on the bed and quietly talking. Healer Stephen hovers outside the door.

Jess is wan and jittery, but Healer Stephen says that with rest and time the strain of her confinement on her body will heal. She clings to K’rol, her legs drawn up to her chest like a child. Torith looks half starved, but otherwise whole. She keeps her eyes on Jess at all times, as if letting her out of sight will spell disaster.

Jan looks up; perhaps she can feel him watching. She turns back to Jess and K’rol for a moment, and K’rol scowls but shakes her head, reluctant. She won’t be joining the mission, T’ny guesses. Jess must be in worse shape than she looks if K’rol is giving up a chance to get back at R’skull. Jan stays a few moments longer, saying something he can’t quite make out, then stands and joins him.

“They didn’t hurt her physically,” she says without prompting. “They were afraid to, in case it distressed Torith too much. It seems the attack on Benden is what gave her and Torith a chance to escape. With help. It seems—H’nek was also imprisoned.” Her voice catches on the name. T’ny opens his arms to her, and she lets herself sink into the hug, her hands clutching at his flight jacket.

“He and Enenoth died in the escape, Jess said.” 

T’ny holds her tighter, stroking her hair the way she strokes his when she’s trying to be reassuring. He’ll deal with his own roil of emotions later.

Eventually Jan straightens, pulling out of his embrace. She wipes at her eyes, leaving wet marks on the vivid golden sleeve of her Gather clothes. “The dragons R’skull’s men were riding are from Torith’s eggs,” she continues, her voice growing more steady with each word. “Or they were initially hers, but she insists they’re not anymore. It seems R’skull did something to them, something with an Ancient machine. The holdless Candidates used blood at the Impression, like with watchwhers.”

Later, they’ll talk about all of this, the implications of blood-bonded dragons and eggs saved from the cold of _between_ , T’ny knows. For now, he needs to stay focused on the present. There’s too much possibility in this chance, and they both know it.

“Was she able to provide a location?” he asks.

“Yes. Vanerith has passed the visualization on to Ivoth.”

“I should get back down to the ready room.”

Jan grabs his arm.

“Ferroth isn’t there.” She holds his gaze, intent. “Jess said she thinks he was mentioned but Torith never heard him.”

T’ny jerks away and presses his lips together to stop saying anything he doesn’t mean. 

“Even if Ferroth isn’t there, I should still go.” He holds his hands open against her protest, palms out, careful not to raise his arms. “There might be clues as to where he is, or why he was taken. And if R’skull is using Ancient machines I should get a look at those, too.”

“Alright.” Jan sighs, her shoulder slumping. “But there’s one more thing you should know. The riders who attacked Benden. Those dragons are from that hatching. From Jess’ point of view she’s been gone for almost a full turn.”

“More time travel.” T’ny shakes his head. “No wonder our patrols didn’t find anything.”

“Which means Ferroth may also be misplaced in time,” Jan says gently. 

T’ny’s not even sure where to start with that. The time displacement would affect Ferroth’s ability to communicate, yes. And it makes sense that after one journey through time, R’skull would think nothing of another. But how is he supposed to find one dragon in the whole of the history of Pern? How can he?

Jan frames his face with her hands, bringing him back to the here and now.

“Go,” she says. “Vanerith will tell them to wait for you.”

He runs.

***

Their makeshift Wing arrives at the site of Jess and Torith’s imprisonment just in time to see a motley group of dragons rise from a cave in a cacophony of wingbeats. Given the sledges of supplies they’re carrying, T’ny is willing to bet they won’t be back. He calls for Ferroth but there’s no answer. Not that he was expecting one, after Jess’ report and Jan’s surmise, but he has to try. Odin’s riders and the Fort fighters chase after the laden dragons of course, but T’ny isn’t sure they’ve even been seen yet when the whole group jumps _between_ together.

R’dy directs the Fort dragons to circle for a moment, in case any other residents still lurk inside, but aside from a few startled wherries the mountainside is quiet. When they land it’s easy to see why R’skull chose the location. The initial cave is large enough to house nearly a dozen dragons, and the tunnel deeper into the mountain is wider than any Weyr passage, the walls as smooth as if they were plasma-cut.

“O’din will keep watch outside in case we surprise anyone to try flight,” R’dy relays as they dismount. “We’ll explore the interior and Ivoth will relay any messages.” He looks around. “This looks like Founders work.”

T’ny has to agree. An abandoned Weyr, maybe, or an abandoned mine. R’dy, Kl’ton, K’tess and H’gann spread out, examining the sides of the cave and the mouth of the descending tunnel.

“I think I’ve been here before,” S’teve says. He turns in a slow circle, visually marking landmarks. “Yeah. Nik’las brought half the Wing here once. It was one of the places R’skull was rumored to have been seen, but we couldn’t find any trace of him. High Reaches is just over those mountains.” He points to the west of the cave mouth.

There’s something about the sky that looks off. It niggles at T’ny’s thoughts.

“Look at the Red Star,” he says.

S’teve looks, but his expression indicates he’s not sure what T’ny is getting at.

“It’s not where it should be. It’s too far to drop Thread. I’d say we’re. . .” T’ny squints at the sky, then searches his pockets for his spyglass and tries again. The profile against the mountains is what cinches it. He has a lot of evening memories of that framing. “A turn before a Pass. We’re a turn out. And since the trip wasn’t anything like as long as you describe, I’m willing to wager it’s just before _our_ Pass.” He collapses the telescope with a snap. “Somewhere out there I’m seventeen and trying to get the other Masters at the Smithhall to listen to me. R’dy!”

R’dy joins them at the mouth of the cave.

“We’ve timed it. Seven turns, I think.”

R’dy nods. “I did wonder a little about the trip. A little too exact an image, maybe.”

“Better than finding nothing, in the present.”

“True. I’ll tell O’din.” R’dy raises his voice to address Kl’ton and H’gann as well. “We should be careful. Remember that timing it can affect a rider’s thoughts and physical wellbeing. None of us will be at our best, living in two places at the same time.”

None of them but S’teve, of course. With no double in this time, S’teve is unlikely to feel any ill effects to a displacement addition of a mere seven turns.

“Any advice?” T’ny asks him. “Potential pointers from your last visit?”

“From what I remember, the tunnels go on for a while.” S’teve frowns. “My memory’s not good enough to make a map, I don’t think. But there are actually a few other exits, too, from what I do recall.”

“Then we’ll stay on alert,” R’dy decides. “Keep your knives ready, and we’ll bring the shields.”

T’ny tears himself away from that not-quite-right horizon to follow the rest of the party into the tunnels. He doesn’t have any more protection than his riding leathers offer, an oversight he may have to correct in the future, but he keeps his left hand on his knife hilt. R’skull is not going to get the drop on him again.

Whoever was living here didn’t bother to remove their glowbaskets, so the way is lighted, if dim. But there’s something about this place. It feels wrong. T’ny feels cold, despite layers of leather and wool designed for the chill of _between_. He feels a bit faint. Stretched thin. Somewhere, across the mountains, his teenage self is probably doing no better.

“I think this is the hatching ground, through here,” S’teve says, gesturing through an opening. “When we were here in the future there was still a lot of sand, and it’s warmer than the rest of the tunnels.”

T’ny knows it’s going to be bad even before they get to the grounds proper. He can feel it. Something happened here that soaked into the rock. It’s like the first time he ever saw live Thread falling. Something here is malevolent and uncaring of how many lives it destroys.

He slips between the other riders to stand at S’teve’s shoulder as the tableau comes into view. A handful of eggs are unbroken, the shadows of cold dragons unborn visible in the torchlight. R’skull has not even bothered to take them _between_ , despite evidence that they must have been inert for a long time. Long enough to let newly hatched dragon grow and fly and fight. There’s no sign of tunnelsnakes encroaching on the grounds to feast, either. There’s even a mummified corpse: What looks like a tangle of three dragons dead on the sand turns out to be a single creature with three gaping mouths and knife stuck deep in its chest.

“It didn’t go _between_.” R’dey frowns down at it. “Did it somehow not have time?”

T’ny studies the dull eyes, the tangle of too many too-short wings and too many joints. The stubby knobs on its heads and the lines of muscle are more akin to a wher than a dragon. “Perhaps it couldn’t,” he says. It’s a sobering thought.

He wanders deeper, stepping carefully lest he disturb some unseen horror. There’s a lighter area against one wall with some broken glass and what looks like a tangle of wires and metal nearby. When he crouches to inspect it he finds intricate inlays of what looks like gold and copper. The wires are as fine as hair. It’s definitely Founder technology. It’s just as clear that whatever the main machines were, they’re not here any longer. 

There are other finds. Two sets broken shell shards that are half-buried in the sand, away from the rest of the clutch. A third set reveals another mummified shape, another something between a dragon and a watchwher, with malformed wings and jutting bones. A rough iron manacle is sunk into the rock over a straw-filled mattress that he assumes is where Jess slept. An offshoot tunnel ends in a shattered pile of bricks, perhaps the opening she and Torith escaped through.

It’s there they find H’nek’s body, next to the body of a burly man T’ny recognizes from a trial at Ruatha. Marvin, the man’s name was; he had run a long misinformation campaign and a series of increasingly lucrative cons to try and usurp the Hold’s leadership. There’s a deep wound in his side and a slash across H’nek’s upper leg. Both must have bled out.

“You knew him?” S’teve reaches for T’ny, concern in his expression.

T’ny shakes his head, stepping away. He doesn’t want _comfort. “_ He was exiled. _I_ exiled him, for crimes against the Weyr.” He doesn’t elaborate further. S’teve doesn’t need to know the details of what Jan and the Weyr suffered at H’nek’s hands.

He’s not sure what he feels staring down at H’nek’s dull eyes and rigid limbs. His anger hasn’t gone away, certainly. Pity, perhaps. Curiosity. Did H’nek join R’skull willingly, or was he also imprisoned as Jan said? If he was intent on helping Jess to freedom, why not act earlier, before the eggs hatched? 

Too many questions unanswered, and he realizes that over everything else he’s _irritated_. H’nek could have provided valuable information about R’skull’s forces and movements. He could have at least been useful, instead of a continued niggling reminder that T’ny can never do enough to protect the people he cares for.

“I’ve lost touch with Ivoth,” R’dy says suddenly. S’teve frowns, and then Kl’ton turns and runs back up the tunnel, the others quick on his heels. T’ny brings up the rear. The group stops just short of the tunnel opening. T’ny can see the dragons are fine, if startled, all peering into the cavern rather than out at the mountainside.

T’ny turns to S’teve.

“You said R’skull had a way to stop dragons talking to each other.” 

S’teve nods. “We never found out what it was.”

“What if it’s here.” T’ny gestures at the walls and back down the tunnel towards unexplored rooms. “What if it’s more than a difference in Impression?”

“It wasn’t here when we came with Nik’las,” S’teve says, “but if it was removed between now and then—”

“If he took it from here to use, in your time and ours,” T’ny agrees, “then you wouldn’t encounter it.” He looks to R’dy. “We can leave someone here as a runner, in case something happens outside, and send someone back occasionally to relay progress. If there’s something here that blocks out dragon thoughts, I’d like to know what it is.”

It’s perhaps a little unfair to ask it, as a man who already can’t hear his dragon. But R’dy has always been logical, and S’teve is eager to help, so they return to their exploration of the caverns. Kl’ton stays with the dragons and K’tess volunteers as a runner. It’s only when they find a room of sacks and empty crates and barrels that T’ny realizes another aspect of time travel he hadn’t previously considered. The barrel hoops, the stamps on the sacks, the shattered pieces of metal swept against one wall. He _knows_ them.

“This is my fault.” Speaking the thought aloud leaves him feeling almost winded, like he can’t draw a full breath.

S’teve frowns at him, uncomprehending. “R’skull is from a whole different time. He’s something you’ve never dealt with before. If he hadn’t found Jess he would’ve found someone else. Or an egg alone. He’s good at this by now.”

“That doesn’t make this less my fault.” T’ny gestures at the stacked crates, empty of supplies. “These are from a series of thefts at Telgar and Crom. Seven turns ago, our time. Some of that metalwork is _mine_.” A thought strikes him like lightning. For a moment he can’t even blink. His mind feels frozen to crystal with sudden understanding. 

“What’s wrong?” R’dy asks.

“I’m the reason he took Ferroth. These supplies. These thefts. I was very vocal about the need to change how goods moved between Holds and Crafthalls and Weyrs so there were fewer losses. When I joined the Weyr I started the dragon escorts. I designed the loading platforms and—” 

R’dy is shaking his head with a pained, resigned expression, but S’teve still looks incredulous. T’ny tries to explain. 

“I wasn’t the only person doing it, but I was _visible_. There was a woman whose husband had been declared holdless for murder turns before who tried to kill me over it, because she’d followed him in exile and thefts from the caravans were the main way they’d survived for that long.”

“Someone tried to kill you?” S’teve asks.

“That’s not the point,” T’ny waves the question away. “The point is that—you said R’skull recruits the desperate and people who think like him. And anyone holdless during this Pass is _very_ desperate, and some of that is due to Thread and some of that is due to _me_. So stealing Ferroth, having the Fort Weyrleader’s dragon imprisoned and on display, that’s a show of power. That would definitely get him some recruits.”

“You can’t know that for certain,” S’teve says, but he doesn’t even sound like he’s convinced himself. He reaches out, like he’s going to grab T’ny’s hand, or maybe his shoulder, but H’gann bursts through the doorway with an excited shout.

“I think I found it!” He holds out his cupped hands. Something glitters silver-blue-white against his gloves. “There’s a chunk of this back there, I broke some off when I realized I couldn’t hear Cyamith anymore. There’s a piece in the hatching ground too. I think this is it.”

“I can’t hear Ivoth now,” R’dy confirms. “Not since you came in.”

“Libereth is very quiet,” S’teve says. “Like he’s very far away.”

“What do you think, T’ny?” H’gann asks. 

T’ny makes a show of taking the chunk of rock and inspecting it, but he’s not really interested anymore. What does it matter if R’skull can block out a dragon’s thoughts? What does it matter if he uses this to do it? T’ny is no closer to finding Ferroth than he was the day R’skull ambushed them. Ferroth is probably terrified and alone and doesn’t even know T’ny is looking for him. Adrift somewhere in time, where a dragonless man has no chance of ever finding him. Imprisoned at the mercy of a man who has no reason to keep him, once he has the followers he wants.

And it’s all his own fault. He hasn’t even been looking in the right places.

“I’ve never seen it before,” is all he says. He just stares at it, unfocused. He feels tired. He feels stretched too-thin. Ravenous and thirsty and too exhausted to move.

The moment stretches. S’teve and R’dy exchange a look he can’t decipher. It’s R’dy who breaks the silence.

“We should get back to the Weyr. It’s not good for any of us, timing it like this, and we’d had a long day already. I’ll give Sam the coordinates and he can send Sameth in. Nothing like a watchwher for thorough tunnel examination. They can dispose of the bodies when their investigation’s done.”

T’ny nods. He only realizes that was a cue to move when S’teve slings an arm around his shoulder and starts nudging him back out of the room. He goes. He doesn’t have the energy or reason to resist.

***

T’ny’s mood doesn’t improve in his own time, back at the Weyr. He slips off Libereth’s back as soon as they land and makes up an excuse about work to be done to get away. He doesn’t want to be social. He doesn’t want to face R’dy’s pity or S’teve insistence that he, T’ny, Weyrleader and Master smith and vocal advocate for radical change can’t be blamed for any of the tragedies that have befallen Fort since he rose in the ranks. He grabs a handful of dried fruit and cup of klah and gives the excuse truth: he composes drum messages to Fort, Ruatha and Southern Boll Holds, asking for records of thefts and trial transcripts for the last ten turns. He returns to the records room, searching out information he knows isn’t there. If there were mentions of dragons in strange places in that room, he would have found them already.

He spends hours searching the shelves anyway, looking for any mentions of missing tithes or threadscarred madmen or the strange stone H’gann found. He looks up maps of the mountains around High Reaches, searching for references to a place that has obviously existed for centuries.

He doesn’t find anything meaningful. 

He tries to sleep. Sleep doesn’t come. Dawn finds him in the ready room, drinking mixed fruit juice straight from the bottle and scowling at a pile of papers and maps that refuse to yield a useful solution. 

Someone sits down across from him.

 _Someone_. As if doesn’t know it’s S’teve by the way he holds himself, by the tilt of his hands on the table and the scars on his knuckles. Ferroth’s being held captive somewhere, being _used_ by this monster of a rider who thinks dragons are just a science experiment, and T’ny’s had time to memorize what a man’s hands look like.

The Gather, dancing with S’teve, kissing him, feels so distant as to be another lifetime.

He takes a drink and sets the bottle down between them. S’teve doesn’t reach for it. He just watches with his clear blue eyes, like he can see straight through T’ny.

“I thought you’d be in your quarters. Or the Council Chamber,” he says, gaze unflinching. His eyelashes are impossibly fair; the freckles across his nose and cheeks and chin look darker in the reflected light of the tiny warming fire.

T’ny takes another drink.

“I don’t have quarters anymore,” he reminds S’teve. “I have a room.”

S’teve ignores the correction. “I’ve been looking for you for hours. I thought you’d be working on a plan, something to stop R’skull and prevent what we saw today from ever happening again. I _hoped_ you might be sleeping, but I guess I knew how unlikely that was.”

T’ny reaches for the bottle again, but S’teve grabs it and holds it still, no matter how T’ny tugs.

“Why are you here, with this bottle, T’ny? Tell me.”

T’ny stares at the bottle—it’s not wine, but it has the right shape. The right heft. He stares at their hands, struggling without touch. He lets go.

“Because I’m a terrible Weyrleader. Because I lost a queen and her rider and my own dragon and that made everything else he does possible. Because I can’t even imagine what Jess is going through and I don’t want to. Because I’m a terrible rider, too, is that what you want to hear, S’teve? Because Ferroth could already be dead and I wouldn’t know it and part of me thinks that might be better than the alternative.”

“That’s not—”

“And because of you,” T’ny says, staring at the tabletop now, at the papers, anywhere but S’teve’s face as he goes still and tense as a dragon before flight. “Because I’ve spent months passing time with you instead of looking for him, and because if you’d done your job right in your own time Ferroth wouldn’t be missing at all. No one would.”

There’s silence, just the tip and thunk of the waterclock to break it. It goes on long enough T’ny starts to think S’teve isn’t going to respond at all.

“You think I don’t know that?” S’teve says, and T’ny is startled enough to look at him. “You think I haven’t been kicking myself, every day since I got here, _knowing_ that R’skull is still out there, doing terrible things? You think I haven’t had it going through my head for every _second_ since we saw that place that if I’d been able to kill him that day, you might still have Ferroth?” He grabs T’ny’s hand and squeezes his fingers. He looks so very earnest. “Let me help, T’ny. I want to fix this.”

T’ny pulls away.

“I don’t think you can help with this,” he says. “Not until we actually find something, anyway. No offense, S’teve, but I don’t think fancy flying or strength at arms is going to be much use until then.”

S’teve’s eyes narrow, his lips a thin line across his face. T’ny can see three separate times he swallows back whatever words come to his tongue before he speaks.

“I only meant that if there’s anything I can do, for you, to help _you_ , I’m here.” He sighs, his whole frame drooping slightly. “I know you’ve got a lot to do, so if there’s _anything_ —fetching records or checking maps or _anything_ —” 

“Keep training the Wings.” T’ny stands. Even with the high ceiling the ready room feels too-small suddenly. Cramped. Claustrophobic, like he’s being buried underground. He needs air. “If I think of anything else I’ll let you know.”

He already knows he won’t. That the unstated ways S’teve could help—companionship, a comforting touch, a night without dreams—aren’t things he can indulge in now. There’s something about the look on S’teve’s face. About his too-familiar hands and the twist of his braid over his shoulder and the clinking tiles on his leathers that makes T’ny feel sick to his stomach. What has he been _doing_ , the last few months? What did he ever do to find Jess and Torith? What has he done to find Ferroth besides dream of whispers and shout all his hopes into the abyss of _between_?

Nothing, that’s what. He has to do better. S’teve is a distraction and—irony of ironies—T’ny needs to focus on the future.

The second day of the new Turn is cold enough that he should be wearing more than base-layer wools, but he doesn’t care. He visits the watchwher caves, but Sam and his fellow handlers haven’t returned yet, likely won’t until at least evening now, given the watchwhers’ aversion to light. He moves on to the drum tower, where Pietro promises him more trial and trading records will be arriving from Fort within the week, and then to the forge. There’s a soup pot to mend for Pepper and another handful of lance tips waiting to be sharpened, and if he looks at a map for any longer he feels like he might try to claw his own eyes out in frustration.

It’s in the forge, just as he finishes banking the fire and re-sorting his tools, that he finally breaks down. He’s been there a hundred times since Ferroth was taken but this time is different, because this time the smell of freshly cooling copper reaches straight past his brain and into his heart to light an ember of _home_ and he realizes: part of him _did_ give up. Part of had him just accepted that Ferroth was gone and had got on with quietly building up a new life, a new niche in the Weyr, a new room, a new routine, a new love.

Jan was right. He _has_ been in denial. He’s been walking around pretending he can’t feel the biting, jagged edges of the hole Ferroth’s left in in his mind, in his _soul_. He’s been pretending it doesn’t hurt to see a dragon in flight, that it doesn’t cut like a knife through his heart to fight Thread with his hands instead of dragonbreath, that he can’t feel a stab of cold through his lungs every time he breathes. It’s not like the wounds in his side, healed to ragged scars. The void in his mind and heart is still as raw as that first moment, and there’s no reason it should ever change. There’s no reason that he’ll ever find Ferroth, except that he needs to. It hits him like a wave, huge and looming in the darkness of his mind. Again, and again, relentless as the sea, until he can’t speak for the sobs tearing out of him, can’t see for the tears spilling from his eyes, can’t stand for the wracking in his shoulders and the weakness in his legs, the only thought in his mind an endless refrain of _no._

He’s not sure how long it lasts. Long enough for B’nner and Jarvis to find him and help him to a more comfortable position against the wall. Long enough that the day is much brighter when he calms and is able to accept a mug of mint tea. He may never be able to repay the kindness of their silence, after. They ask no questions and make no demands of him. B’nner gets on with his latest project and Jarvis carries on a low-voiced conversation with himself, talking about weather changes and Pepper’s plans for dinner and projections for the new turn while T’ny sips his tea and doesn’t think about his mother’s death, or his father’s, or the quiet, unobtrusive efficiency with which Jarvis had kept him warm and fed then.

He wakes up on the rough cot that still lurks at the back of the forge, still tired but somehow empty. No longer does the dark rush of grief threaten to crash over him, for all that it’s still eddying in the corners of his mind. On the floor beside the cot he finds a tray of broth and bread, from Jarvis, a note about coal levels from B’nner, and a drawing of the greenhouse that can only be from S’teve.

He drinks the broth, pockets the bread and folds the papers together. He needs a bath and time to think, and then he needs to talk to Jan.

Days pass. T’ny does his best to keep himself occupied and avoid as many people as he can, an impossible feat in a Weyr. Jan gives him worried looks whenever she sees him, and more than once R’dy makes a point of seeking him out for some purpose or another. T’ny tries to be clear: He’s not really interested in company. It’s nothing personal, but he’d rather be alone.

Being alone feels less like a betrayal. When he’s alone, he can bend his focus to the problem of finding Ferroth completely.

S’teve is busy enough that he maybe hasn’t even noticed T’ny’s absence yet. He spends most every day training Wingleaders and Wingseconds and anyone else interested in dragonback fighting. T’ny ends up watching more than once as he runs group after group of riders through drills. The use of lance and shield, the ways a net or grappling hook can be used to foul wings, the the need to be able to jump short, precise distances _between_ , the importance of height and speed as advantages. There’s some fancy flying involved too, the types of things that weyrlings practice but most fighting dragons and riders give up as a waste of energy against Thread. Flanking an opponent. Twisting and rolling and flipping in the air. Strafing passes and swoops that take dragon and rider upside down, either above or below their opponent. S’teve is good at it, at the drills and teaching both, and there are moments when T’ny is tempted to join him. Or to seek him out for a meal, or advice, or more physical pursuits.

He doesn’t. 

On the sixth night Sam and his fellow wher handlers return from the site of R’skull’s former base. They say there were signs that at least one wher had lived in the tunnels, maybe two, and they bring back more crates of abandoned supplies and samples of the strange rock H’gann found. 

T’ny sends more drum messages. He pours over more copies of records from hold and crafthall, just to confirm what he already knows: R’skull and his followers have been stealing supplies through time, picking off caravans from Telgar seven turns ago. From Ruatha eight turns ago. From Nerat and Keroon ten turns ago. He reads trial transcripts and procures sketches of the criminals O’din and his riders recognized, along with lists of their skills and any friends or family who might accompany them in exile. The only similarities he can find are a propensity for violence, few social ties and long records of impulsive, often destructive behavior. 

Research into how the dragons and whers were initially engineered, key differences in their DNA and whether they are, in fact, somehow genetically compatible, hits dead end after dead end in short order. The records simply don’t exist, and the machines—incubators and whatever else was used to build them—are either broken, undiscovered, or, in a case that leaves T’ny dully unsurprised, found to have been stolen sometime since the last inventory. That in itself is a sort of confirmation, at least. R’skull has been quite busy in the last few months, it seems, if he’s found a way to cross dragons and whers while they’re already in the egg.

The stone is a whole different challenge. The watchwhers seem much less affected, but the dragons actively move away from him if he’s carrying a piece any larger than his fist. In fact, their aversion to it is strong enough he has trouble finding volunteers to help him run tests. In the end, S’teve and Libereth are the most willing pair. 

“I did tell you,” S’teve says. “Anything you need. Anything I can do to help.” He smiles, all kind and hopeful and like he thinks T’ny can fix the world. Like they can do anything, together. Like he doesn’t _know_ that nothing T’ny does in the present really changes anything, for Ferroth or for the future. Even Libereth is excited and alert.

T’ny tries to focus on the stone instead of how easy it would be to just lean into S’teve’s warmth and confidence and embrace oblivion for a while. There’s work to be done. Work that might help someone, somewhere on Pern, find Ferroth. Maybe.

He has to make this happen. The stone has to be helpful in the search somehow. It’s the only new thing he has.

They try everything either of them can think of, and then he polls B’nner, H’gann, R’dy and Jan for more ideas. Mass matters: In a powder whatever it is that causes the effect has almost no strength at all. A chunk the size of his thumb can cut the connection between dragon and rider if the rider holds it, but to influence thoughts between dragons it has to be bigger. Proximity matters too: the largest chunk of stone Sam retrieved, about the size of a human head, can influence a dragon’s ability to communicate with anyone, if it’s within one dragonlength. As the distance increases, the effect is reduced. Containers, no matter their density, don’t seem to change anything. And one other thing: if a dragon and rider pair know what to listen for, they can get an impression of where the stone is. S’teve describes it as being like tundlebug wings. A faint sort of buzz that you only notice when it’s close, or when you’re looking for it, whether it actively affects the dragon or not.

T’ny’s not certain this is useful, but he adds it to the notes he’s compiling anyway, and Jan makes sure every other Weyr gets at least one copy. Days pass into weeks with no further word. A few weyrlings are reported missing, from Ista and Igen, but it’s difficult to say whether the disappearances are related to R’skull or the more usual dangers a young rider’s carelessness can lead to. 

T’ny feels like he’s drifting through his own life, a presence with all the impact of a ghost. He can’t shake the sensation that he’s running out of time, that nothing he does is really permanent. That death is the only real constant in his life. He catches sleep in cat naps and wakes up with salt on his lips tears dried to his cheeks. He forgets to eat. Frequently, based on the way Jarvis and S’teve look at him sometimes.

He knows he’s not good company. Anyone who tries to talk to him about something unrelated to survey sweeps and new ideas for the search ends up carrying the conversation on their own. S’teve is one of the few who keeps trying. Nearly every day he tracks T’ny down somewhere and brings him food, or invites him to the baths, or offers to help with some chore in the greenhouse. It’s like a reversal of the pattern T’ny set while S’teve was recovering, and in a way T’ny is grateful. He needs _something_ to distract from the chorus of loss and misery inside his head. But he can’t stop the flashes of resentment that surge over him sometimes: anger that S’teve and R’skull came to this time together, bitterness at the unfairness of _T’ny_ being the one to lose his dragon in that scenario, fury over the destruction R’skull is causing to so many who have never wronged him, and he can’t ignore the hole where Ferroth should be any more either. 

He mostly manages not to lash out at S’teve, but he can’t relax. He can’t really let himself fall into the easy camaraderie they’d been building. He doesn’t know how to redefine what happens between them without breaking it, and he doesn’t know how to be with S’teve, to be the man S’teve has befriended and kissed and maybe even loved these last few months, and not feel like he’s losing Ferroth a little more in every moment. He knows it’s not fair. He just doesn’t know what else to do. Even when he tries to make the connection work he’s certain S’teve doesn’t get the message. 

Once, they go stargazing up at the top of the Weyrbowl, near the Star Stones. And T’ny _tries_. He manages to spend an hour, maybe more, just sitting close and talking about constellations and planets and bits of Founder fairytales about space travel. And then he falls asleep, and he wakes up to S’teve shaking his shoulder. His throat is raw from shouting.

He apologizes, despite S’teve’s protests. He leaves. They don’t talk about it.

He can’t seem to shake himself out of his lethargy. The longer it goes on, the more damage he does. He snaps at Jan, he snubs R’dy, he spends hours in the forge with nothing to show for his time but misshapen twists of metal. B’nner bans him from the space until he can concentrate properly. S’teve still seeks him out, but it seems to be more out of habit than desire for his company. Or perhaps he feels obligated. Either way, S’teve spends more and more time training, and when he does speak with T’ny his topics of choice have changed. Instead of strategy and art and the varied problems Pern faces he speaks more and more of his past. Of High Reaches, of the future, of people T’ny doesn’t know and will never meet. Sometimes he talks about the windmills and greenhouses and better ways to use dragon abilities during Intervals. 

T’ny should probably take that as a sign. He should probably cut his losses now and get used to a life that doesn’t have S’teve _or_ Ferroth in it. But he can’t quite bring himself to let go. Of either of them. So he stumbles on, through one-sided conversations and poor sleep, and he tries to keep up with what duties he can still complete.

The greenhouse is the most constant. The plants need regular monitoring in the winter and he’s not sure he’s gotten the angle of the roof quite right for optimal sunlight. One day nearly a month after Fort’s winter Gather he partitions off a section and builds a new lattice to support a separate roof section. One at a better angle for some of the more tropical plants, with some of the clearer glass tiles. S’teve helps him carry the tiles up to the roof and unhook and stack the old ones. They remove the old trellis too, and S’teve carefully ferries the lengths of bamboo to the ground. T’ny has just set the first line of new tiles into the new trellis when a dragon’s roar cuts through the afternoon and all around the bowl dragons echo it. Bronze wings thunder almost directly over him, strong enough to shift his careful stacks of glass, and in his effort to stop them sliding off the roof entirely and shattering beyond repair T’ny . . . falls.

He crashes first through the open trellis, then through the sapling lemon tree and takes out a table of herbs with one leg before he finally reaches solid ground. Blood runs freely down his right arm and his entire left side is probably bruises upon bruises. He stares up at the shattered hole in the greenhouse roof.

“Damn.” He tastes coppery blood on his tongue. 

He blinks, and the world shifts. He’s on the ground near the wall latticework, greenery strewn around him, and S’teve’s face has gone white as snow. He’s clutching T’ny’s arm tightly, too tight, tight enough T’ny is pretty sure his bones are grinding together. Healer Stephen is hurrying toward them.

“Did I black out?” he asks, and S’teve looks even more worried.

But then Stephen is there, more healer novices behind him, and once he’s determined the cut isn’t life-threatening they get T’ny on a stretcher (despite his protests) and carry him to his room. The wound requires stitches, and more numbweed and fellis than T’ny thinks should be strictly necessary. The first sip of fellis hits him like a punch, a visceral reminder of the last time he got stitched up, and he drinks the rest through gritted teeth, swallowing past the urge to gag. After the stitches Stephen pokes every bruise, and wraps his slightly-swelling ankle, and then inspects his scars for good measure before he finally leaves T’ny with strict orders to stay in bed and not go anywhere near ‘precarious glass buildings’ for at least a week.

S’teve hovers. Through the initial stitches, and the dressing afterward, and for most of the day. T’ny is fairly certain that he only leaves to feed Libereth.

It’s a little endearing.

After the first two hours, it’s a lot annoying.

“I’m fine,” he repeats once more as S’teve settles into the chair next to him, the dressing newly replaced. “A twisted ankle and some bruises and a little cut. I’ll be healed up in a week or two, tops.”

S’teve puts his head in his hands, silent.

“You want to mourn something, mourn the greenhouse,” T’ny goes on. “Nothing in there will survive the night without proper cover.”

“I got K’rol to help me stretch some oilclotch over the hole,” S’teve says, half-muffled. “It’s not perfect, but we sealed it up as best we could.”

“Oh.” T’ny picks at his dressing. “Thank you.”

S’teve reaches out to still his hands and it turns into something more like holding his fingers. He meets T’ny’s eyes. He looks _ragged_.

“I thought you were going to die there.” He swallows, like just the memory of the thought is jarring. “There was so much blood.”

“I’m fine,” T’ny tells him again. Gently though. For all his frustration and despair the last few weeks, he _misses_ S’teve. Maybe this is a new chance to salvage something between them.

“Did you find out what was happening?” he asks. “With the bronze and everything.”

S’teve hesitates. “It’s—Jan ordered me not to tell you.”

Or maybe they won’t be salvaging things after all.

“But you’re going to,” T’ny says flatly. “Aren’t you?”

S’teve grimaces and shakes his head. But then he takes a deep breath, and on the exhale T’ny can just hear the whisper: “A queen egg is missing, from Igen _.”_

 _No_.

“Where are they now.” It’s more demand than question.

“I—the Council Chamber, I think—”

T’ny struggles to his feet and lurches toward the doorway.

“Healer Stephen said—”

T’ny wheels around, catching himself on a chair to keep steady.

“If a queen egg has been stolen then R’skull can’t be hiding somewhere in time. He can’t go _between_ without killing the dragon inside. He has to be on Pern _now_ , in the present, if he wants her to hatch. And if he’s in the present, the Weyrs are going to find him and attack, and if that happens, _I need to be there_.”

S’teve doesn’t argue further. He even slings T’ny’s arm over his shoulder and helps him hobble all the way up the twisting corridors to the Council Chamber. By the end S’teve is part-carrying him and he’s just giving directions whenever they come to a crossroad.

Jan looks resigned to see them, but not surprised. Of the Wingleaders, only R’dy actually sighs over him. Weyrleader T’Challa simply nods a greeting.

“We were discussing a shift in survey routes,” he says. “The thieves cannot have more than an hour’s head start from Igen’s own patrols, and they cannot fly for long without risking the egg.”

There’s a map of Pern spread out on the table, with a wide circle of red thread pinned around Igen.

“That’s the radius?” T’ny asks. He doesn’t bother to claim his seat, instead leaning on the edge of the table for a better look.

“For our most concentrated search, yes.” T’Challa looks to Jan. “With your permission, Weyrwoman, I will convey our plan to your Watchwher handler.” He bows out of the room. 

“Our plan?” T’ny asks Jan. “Watchwhers?”

“T’ny, you’re _injured_. On top of that you haven’t been well for weeks—”

“So tell S’teve the plan and I’ll just show up. You know I’m not missing this, Jan.”

R’dy stands. “You might as well tell him.” He gathers up a smaller version of the map with patrol routes sketched over it. “I’m going to start assembling the Wing. H’gann.”

H’gann stands too, and K’tess and F’ter. R’dy squeezes T’ny’s shoulder on his way out.

Jan presses her lips together and crosses her arms tightly. “Two Wings from each Weyr will join the search parties.” She indicates positions on the map. “They will be ready to confront R’skull. The rest of the Wings will stay in the Weyrs and continue patrolling for Threadfall. As soon as dusk falls, watchwhers will take up a ground search. T’Challa believes R’skull may have an underground stronghold in the Igen Desert, if he hopes to hatch the queen egg.”

“So we’re waiting,” T’ny concludes. “Battle-readiness, but waiting.”

“For now.” Jan sits back with a sigh. “Vanerith will relay coordinates as soon as we have something to go on.” Her face twists, her expression regretful. “We’ll be staying high and relaying formation and movement patterns during any actual fighting. I can’t offer you a place in the queen’s Wing this time, T’ny.”

“I’ll take him,” S’teve says. “Libereth and I would be happy to carry you.” 

T’ny turns to him, startled. “I’ll probably need to be on the ground,” he starts, but S’teve is already nodding.

“It won’t be a problem,” he promises.

“We’ll need you in the sky as well,” Jan points out.

“Not at the start. We’ve drilled enough, gone over enough strategies, I know the Wingleaders can handle at least a few minutes without me.” S’teve offers a wry smile. “I’ll drop T’ny off first thing and be back on the wing before you miss me.”

“Fine, fine.” Jan holds up her hands in surrender. “I should have known better than to argue with you both.” She rounds on T’ny, poking him in the chest with a finger. “You had better eat tonight. I am not above setting Jarvis on you. And try to get some sleep. We don’t know that anything will happen today or tonight at all.”

“I’ll look after him,” S’teve assures her. “We’ll be ready.”

* * *

T’ny insists that he can make his preparations alone, or at least enough of them that he doesn’t need S’teve hovering over him like a queen over a clutch, so S’teve leaves him to it. He’s found it better to pick his battles, ever since they returned from R’skull’s mountain hideout. The Weyr seems to be in general agreement that their Weyrleader is only now truly mourning his loss, as if those caves triggered something and a dam inside him spilled open. 

S’teve doesn’t begrudge him the grief. He just wishes he could do more about it than sort of hang around and hope his presence is useful. He’d thought even that was at least doing something, for a while. Now, he’s not so sure. He’s not sure about taking T’ny into a combat zone with fresh injuries and too-little sleep, either, but if Ferroth is there and T’ny isn’t, he knows none of them will ever forgive themselves. Not S’teve, not Jan, not R’dy and especially not T’ny himself.

He pulls on his leathers and harnesses Libereth, who’s eager enough S’teve has to remind him three times that they might not even go anywhere today.

 _Do you know how the egg was stolen?_ he asks. Libereth’s wings sink, the excitement in his eyes shifting to sad purples and greys.

 _Nireth was old,_ he says _, her rider died after she clutched. She stayed on the sands but Panth says she was poisoned when the egg was stolen._

 _What could poison a dragon?_ S’teve’s never head of such a thing actually happening. Warnings to weyrlings, sure, but not an actual recorded death. Maybe firestone, for a queen? Or maybe fellis, though he can’t imagine how large the dose it would have to be for a mature dragon.

 _I don’t know,_ Libereth admits. _That’s just what Panth said_.

S’teve rubs at Libereth’s eyeridge comfortingly.

 _We’ll get the egg back,_ he promises.

 _Yes_ , Libereth agrees. He looks more determined than excited now, but that’s probably for the better.

It’s another hour before T’ny joins them. He’s donned fighting leathers and his flamethrower suit and he’s rigged some sort of splint over his ankle. He’s carrying a lance and shield.

“These are for you,” His injuries don’t seem to hamper his movements too much as he crosses the cave. “I’d meant to give them to you a while back but . . . ” he grimaces and trails off. 

S’teve takes the lance first. It’s a more polished design than the ones in the armory, with the iron tip wired tightly into place at one end and a wide, curved piece of molded leather to brace his shoulder against at the other. The shield is even more personalized: it’s the exact size of his old one, and the hand grips are padded to fit securely on his arm without further adjustment. The rim is hammered bronze, polished bright and coppery, and the leather face has been dyed blue, with the High Reaches’ seven spires picked out in white in the center.

“Thank you.” He strokes his hand over the design. “Not Fort?”

“I figured you’d want R’skull to see you coming,” T’ny says with a shrug. “And I thought you might like something from . . . home.”

“It’s perfect.” S’teve slides it onto his arm and sets the lance against his shoulder experimentally. “It even fits perfectly. How did you manage that without measurements or asking me to sit for moldings?”

T’ny’s mouth flickers in a smile at that. For the first time in weeks, he actually seems excited. Like he’s looking forward to something rather than simply enduring.

“I _have_ always had a good eye for detail,” he says. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” S’teve admits. He wishes he had his hands free, and he could reach out and touch T’ny. If he could, he’s almost certain things would be just as they were before Jess returned to the Weyr and they found the cave of broken eggs and dead dragons. He’s almost certain he could reach out, and T’ny would step in, and then S’teve could tell him everything he’s wanted to say these last few weeks while T’ny hasn’t wanted to hear anything from anyone.

_I’m here. You’re not alone. I love you._

The moment passes. T’ny steps away. By the time S’teve gets both lance and shield secured to Libereth’s harness T’ny is staring out at the Weyrbowl, tense as a gitar string, waiting for the call.

They wait through most of the night. S’teve leans against Libereth and watches T’ny pace back and forth on the lip of the sunning ledge. The flamethrower suit can’t be the most comfortable weight to bear hour after hour, but he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t really say much of anything. They both eat when Jarvis delivers a tray of dried meats and fruits and steaming hot klah. Or at least, S’teve eats. T’ny only takes a few dried apple rings and a cup of the klah, and even that much only after Jarvis has patiently stared him down for a few minutes.

Watching their interaction, and given the way Jarvis has been hovering over T’ny recently, S’teve is willing to bet they have some history in this context. He wonders if Jarvis, like Pepper, knew T’ny before he was a rider. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to break the silence, in case it breaks the fragile peace T’ny has found.

The news comes just two hours before dawn: a patrol of watchwhers has found an underground warren of tunnels, deep in the Igen desert on the Big Bay side of the peninsula. S’teve and T’ny mount as soon as Libereth relays the message and are waiting, all three of them alert and wary, for the moment the order comes to form up. 

It takes another hour for the Weyrs to coordinate their plan of attack, and the flight order for the Fort attack Wings comes just as dawn breaks over the caldera. S’teve straps himself onto Libereth’s neck with fingers that are half-numb even inside his gloves and then double checks both his own seat and T’ny’s. Launch above the bowl and S’teve counts his breaths as they wait for the final signal, each moment marked in puffs of white in the cold morning air and the slow spill of light over the Weyr grounds.

Jan and Vanerith rise like a beacon, Vanerith passes the coordinates to every dragon in the Wings, and then they jump.

A handful of heartbeats and they’re soaring over the desert, dragons approaching from every side. Below them S’teve can see a stretch of flattened ground, bordered by a mess of what looks like large clay bricks and looming boulders in a rough ring. 

T’ny’s hand on his shoulder clamps down hard, the ridges of the flamethrower device digging in even through his leathers. 

“I can hear him!” T’ny yells in his ear. “I can hear Ferroth!”

“Good!” S’teve yells back, and he starts looking for a possible landing site.

R’skull’s forces are quick to respond. S’teve holds his aerial position for only a few wingbeats, but even that is enough to see R’skull and a handful of bronzes take flight, their attention focused on the main bulk of Weyr attackers. S’teve takes advantage and slips around edge of the fight, taking short hops _between_ to disguise his path until they’re directly over the flattened stretch that passes as a poor Weyrbowl and Libereth can land. T’ny scrambles to the ground as quickly as he can and runs toward the gaping cave mouth without looking back. S’teve watches long enough to see him blast a dagger-wielding attacker in the chest with a gout of flame, then urges Libereth back into the sky. He’ll be more use in the air. On the ground he’s just a target, and there are more people pouring into the open bowl with every second he waits.

 _Cyamith needs help_ ,Libereth relays, and they jump _between_ to ambush one of the two browns worrying at Cyamith and H’gann’s flanks. H’gann is holding his own, Cyamith flaming at the enemies as often as possible, but S’teve can already see they suffer from the same hesitations the Weyr fighters have always faced with confronting R’skull’s forces: They don’t want to really hurt another dragon or rider. For Cyamith the concept is alien. For H’gann the prohibition against striking another rider cuts deep. His net and lance are still strapped to his harness, unused.

S’teve grits his teeth and shoves his lance at the nearest of the brown riders, a thin man in poorly-stitched leathers, as soon as Libereth swoops close enough to let the attack connect. It’s more shocking than harmful, but it knocks the rider off-balance and in that moment of surprise the brown jerks away from Cyamith, diving and roaring, flapping its wings erratically.

S’teve presses his advantage, directing Libereth to call on nearby riders—Kl’ton on Glorenith and K’rol on Radeth—and together they swarm the enemy brown. When the rider recovers they have him surrounded. Kl’ton and Glorenith lash out at the same time. The dragon squeals, one wing torn, and the rider bends around the arrow in his shoulder. When they get the pair safely to the sand outside the stronghold, Radeth pins the enemy brown with a net and K’rol binds the rider securely, despite a vitriolic verbal haranguing. Up close, without active danger, S’teve can see the dragon is as scrawny as his rider. His muzzle is blunter, his hide much darker than his captor’s. He doesn’t seem to share his rider’s agitation, or particularly care where his rider is, his eyes swirling only in anxious yellows and grey pain. It’s somewhat creepy, if knowing T’ny’s suspicions about R’skull’s bioengineering experiments.

A dragon screams above them and S’teve looks up in time to see the other brown blink _between_ , one wing burnt black and skeletal. The pair doesn’t reappear.

There is no mourning cry from R’skull’s troops. They fight on as if they haven’t even noticed, while the Weyr forces close enough to hear the scream falter. Cyamith and H’gann hover in place. S’teve thinks Cyamith might be keening slightly.

“They don’t even flinch,” Kl’ton signs, vivid anger in the movements. “These guys are monsters.” 

He and Glorenith launch back into the air, then jump _between_ to rejoin the battle. S’teve follows.

It doesn’t take long for his suspicions to be confirmed. Whatever R’skull has been trying, he hasn’t achieved anything like the organized, bloodthirsty following he had in S’teve’s time. Men and dragons both fight like they are the only combatants on the field, rarely coordinating in more than pairs. The dragons move more like herdbeasts than real dragons, with none taking up the brutal tactics S’teve is used to seeing in R’skull’s followers. Break a rider’s concentration and the dragon panics, every time. They are uniformly young, too, as if even with time travel they haven’t reached their full growth. There’s a difference in ratios, too: there are fewer dragons in the air than in S’teve’s time, and more people on the ground. Some give up easily in the face of the Weyr’s overwhelming presence. Others fight like they literally have nothing to lose, striking out at all comers without strategy or hesitation. Given R’skull’s recruiting practices, perhaps they know that only death or starvation awaits them. 

S’teve puts his lance and shield to good use, grouping with bronzes and browns to subdue one pair of enemy rider and dragon after another, and he’s not the only one. Soon the desert around the makeshift Weyr is littered with small pockets of restrained dragons and riders. There is at least one other pair, a more aggressive one, who disappears _between_ with mortal injuries.

Then the Weyr dragons cry out as one, and S’teve knows the holdless are not the only casualties.

 _Omoth_ Libereth reports. _From Ista._ S’teve doesnt recognize the name. It’s joined by others he doesn’t know. Atimoth of Benden. Fovith of Igen and Fulith of High Reaches, who take another of R’skull’s pairs with them. Hiyath of Ista. Anuyeth, of Fort Weyr.

 _The queens!_ Libereth shouts suddenly, overwhelming and urgent. He jumps _between_ without waiting for a visualization from S’teve. When they emerge just a few dragonlengths above Vanerith S’teve sees why. R’skull is a screaming terror, blinking _between_ from one target to another and leaving chaos and injuries in his wake. The queen’s wing is scattered, and with many of the browns and bronzes restraining enemy dragons down on the sands it’s mostly blues and greens surging to protect them.

 _Focus on R’skull, just like last time_ , S’teve remind Libereth. _We get his attention and keep it and he won’t go after any of them._

They jump _between_ to a spot just above where R’skull is swiping at a younger queen, and Libereth roars a challenge. They dive. R’skull jumps _between_ , dodging to the side, but they have his attention. S’teve directs Libereth in the same strafing pass the used before even though he knows it won’t work as well without surprise on their side. He can see the moment R’skull recognizes them. After that they don’t have to work to keep his focus. R’skull follows them through glides and dives and jumps _between_. Onaputh is huge and fast, but Libereth is faster. Twice they only avoid raking talons by dropping straight down. A gout of flame gets so close S’teve can feel its heat around the edges of his shield. But every dodge and dive and jump _between_ gets R’skull further away from the queens and keeps him from hurting less experienced riders.

They’ll have to end it soon. R’skull is too smart to fall for a distraction that doesn’t manifest real threat. S’teve sends out messages through Libereth and readies his shield and lance. As soon as he hears back that Kl’ton, K’rol, R’dy and K’tess are in position, he and Libereth engage head-on.

It only takes a moment for R’skull to realize something new is happening, but by then K’tess, R’dy and K’rol have marshaled the dragons under their command to create walls of flames and moving dragons in all cardinal directions, blocking the line of sight for easy jumps _between_. S’teve scores a long scratch down Onaputh’s flank. Arrows sprout from R’skull’s back and leg as Kl’ton attacks from above. S’teve and Libereth surge forward again, and this time Libereth folds his wings and falls, slamming into Onaputh’s wing and shoulder. S’teve’s lance bites deep enough he has to let go of it, his arm and shoulder flaring with hot white pain, pulsing to match Libereth’s own roar of shock. Onaputh bellows rage and pain and Libereth twists and rolls away, dropping lower. Onaputh still turns to follow, mostly gliding and favoring the wing they hit but still moving. S’teve can see R’skull jerkily readying firestone. The arrows obviously pain him but don’t seem to have penetrated very far through his leathers.

 _Tell Glorenith we’ll switch places at a count of ten,_ S’teve tells Libereth. He risks a long look up to memorize Kl’ton’s position. _10, 9, 8, 7…_

They reappear in time to see Glorenith send a flash of flame straight into Onaputh’s mouth and then blink back _between_. S’teve doesn’t know where they reemerge. He and Libereth are already diving again as the bronze thrashes and spouts erratic flame. 

S’teve clamps his shield under his knee and shovels firestone into Libereth’s mouth as well as he can with one fully-working arm. [Then they swoop underneath Onaputh’s wings and flame along his side, twisting away near the neck.](https://www.deviantart.com/kaitovsheiji/art/Final-fight-774767977)

Or at least, that’s the plan. Onaputh wails and strikes out with his back talons, catching along Libereth’s side as they pass. Libereth roars and rolls, diving lower. S’teve twists to look behind, holding his shield over his head against the possibility of more flames or another one of the throwing knives R’skull uses so effectively.

There’s no attack coming. Onaputh is diving, ignoring the dragons around him to pursue something falling swiftly toward the sand. 

The something, S’teve realizes, is R’skull, still strapped into his saddle, burnt edges of the harness fluttering out above him.

 _Go after him_ , he tells Libereth. He’s not sure why. They’re lower, and closer, but it’s obvious they won’t be able to catch up, not flying laterally, and a jump _between_ is more likely to lead to collision than rescue. He’s not sure what they would do if they could reach him. Try to catch the pieces of harness and slow the fall? Try to save him, somehow?

They don’t get the chance. R’skull hits the sand without even his own dragon reaching him. S’teve and Libereth land seconds later, and S’teve scrambles out of his saddle with his shield at the ready in time to see the light fade from R’skull’s eyes and his body go slack. Above them, Onaputh keens and goes _between_.

Even in death R’skull’s face is twisted in rage, empty eyes staring at the sky. He still holds a knife, though whether as a weapon or as part of an attempt to cut off the rest of his fighting straps is hard to say. Kl’ton’s arrows have broken in the impact. S’teve is almost certain R’skull’s back is broken too.

K’rol lands beside Libereth.

“There’s still fighting in the tunnels,” she says. “Hand-to-hand, no dragons.” 

S’teve nods. He doesn’t move to mount Libereth.

 _S’teve?_ Libereth asks.

 _It was our fault_ , S’teve tells him. The stench of burned leather is thick in the air, the charred edges of fighting straps black and stark against the sand. _Our fault he fell._

 _They would have hurt us. They did hurt us,_ Libereth points out.

S’teve takes a shaky breath. Another. The scar over his abdomen stretches without pain. He knows the scars on Libereth’s shoulders are still visible, a messy splotch of silver. He thinks of Jess, afraid to leave the Weyr. Of T’ny. Of the riders he never knew who they’ve already lost forever today.

 _They did_.

“We could use you in the tunnels,” K’rol says. “But if you need the time, I’ll go alone.”

“We’re coming,” S’teve tells her. He turns away from R’skull’s body and mounts, ignoring the strain in his right shoulder as best he can. Just one man, he reminds himself. Just one man can make a difference, for good or for ill. And he’d rather be acting than standing still.

***

It takes hours to clear the tunnels. Hours of fending off men and women attacking with knives and torches and shovels and even kitchen implements. S’teve ends up mostly relying on his shield and his good arm, blocking attacks and pinning combatants until another rider can get them tied up. At one point R’dy runs past him, shouting that they’d found a hostile watchwher. He almost loses his concentration in a somewhat frantic knife duel when Libereth relays the message that the queen egg has been found and is being returned to Ista. And then there’s Jan, setting up foot patrols and bringing in healers and coordinating messages from rider to dragon to rider. By the time twilight falls and the watchwhers can come in to make sure all the tunnels have been discovered, S’teve can hardly lift his shield above his waist any longer.

When he has a moment to breathe, a moment after he checks over Libereth and presses numbweed to the scrapes along on his dragon’s side and the bruises along both their shoulders, after he reassures them both that no greater injury threatens either of them, he goes looking for T’ny. He walks deep inside, past bricked up caverns that can only be described as cages, too cramped for even the smallest dragon to safely jump _between_. He gets glimpses through the window slits as he searches. Some are mercifully empty. Others are not, and more than once he stops to duck through the narrow doorway, to try to reassure the restrained and ailing occupants, human and dragon alike, to ask Libereth to relay a message for a healer’s attention. 

There are a few corpses, too, and he’s left wondering if the unoccupied caverns once held dragons who have since disappeared _between_ without thought of survival. Down here, each cell has a small hand-sized chunk of silvery-blue rock sunk into the bricks. It’s not strong enough to affect his connection with Libereth, just a few dragonlengths away still, but if T’n’y conclusions are correct it’s more than enough to mute anyone from Igen ever noticing the captives’ presence. He quickens his pace, hardly letting himself think until he hears the deep rumble of a dragon’s croon and finds a cavern with a dragon and rider both.

T’ny stands with his hands spread as wide as possible over the snout of a red-bronze dragon, as if he can hug a creature several times his size.

S’teve stops in his tracks, relief washing over him like the wind of dragonflight. He turns to head back the way he’d come, to offer the pair privacy now he knows they’ve found each other, but the dragon’s eyes snap open: wary, angry, anxious. The rumble of dragon contentedness fades. S’teve spreads his open hands and stands still, as nonthreatening as he can be. 

“It’s alright,” T’ny says, his voice half-choked. He shifts toward the doorway and S’teve can see tears on his cheeks. T’ny holds out one hand. “It’s alright,” he repeats, “Come here.”

S’teve approaches cautiously, and the dragon watches every step he takes for signs of a threat. When he’s close enough T’ny takes his hand and presses it to the dragon’s nose.

“S’teve, this is Ferroth. Ferroth, S’teve, who rides Libereth. He’s been helping me find you. He’s been . . . helping me.”

S’teve bows, slow and respectful, trying to ignore the rising hope he feels at being included in this, that T’ny would _ask_ him to be here.

Ferroth blinks at him, slow and careful, and S’teve would swear something else passes between the dragon and his rider. [Slowly, the reds, oranges and yellows in Ferroth’s eyes shift to blues and greens. Ferroth begins to hum again, low and strong enough that S’teve can feel the vibration all the way up his arm.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16794817/chapters/39418546)

“R’skull is dead?” T’ny asks on a whisper, as if that will somehow prevent his dragon from hearing. 

“Yes.” 

“You’re sure?” 

The madness in R’skull’s eyes as the life went out of him is burned into S’teve’s brain. He’s not sure he’ll ever forget that moment.

He looks between T’ny’s ragged expression and his dragon’s half-closed eyes. 

“We have his corpse,” he says. “The dragon went _between_.”

T’ny nods. He slumps against Ferroth, like needing that question answered was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Thank you,” he whispers. We’re both . . . grateful.”

S’teve isn’t sure how to respond to that. He’s not happy to have killed a man, no matter how necessary. He’s sorry so many dragons and riders have suffered, but if traveling through time on dragonback has taught him anything, it’s that the past is ultimately immutable. He can’t change what has already happened. He can only move forward and do his best to mitigate the damage. 

“I’m glad you found each other,” he says, settling for a simple truth. 

T’ny offers a faint smile, but doesn’t speak. After a long handful of heartbeats, S’teve takes his leave. There’s plenty of work to do elsewhere.

***

Sorting through the base takes days, long days that extend into longer nights. The very first night is perhaps the longest, because it’s the night they dispose of the bodies. The lost riders are ferried carefully _between_ , the holders returned to their families, the holdless sunk in the sea, but R’skull they burn. No one wants to keep his wall hangings or his flags or any of the trappings of this forsaken Weyr, not even to reclaim the threads and woods, and so they stack it all in an open patch of the desert R’skull claimed and put his body on top. S’teve points a flamethrower at the mound until he can’t see for the heat and ash in his eyes. No one speaks. Later, there will be songs for the riders and dragons lost, for the holders and holdless who were kept prisoner. R’skull and his followers deserve no eulogy.

Some of the captives die in the night. Some sort of poison. Others are transported to Igen, to be tried for new crimes. Those with dragons are kept away from their partners until Sam and other members of the watchwherhold have a chance to assess the health of both dragons and their bond. S’teve has already heard the strange hybrids called wherdragons. He wonders if there will be more, or if they’ll all die out here, long before he’s ever born, without even a mention in ballad or tale surviving.

Ferroth is not the only maltreated dragon, nor T’ny the only reunited rider. After a few days of healing, S’teve and Libereth join the caravan of messengers between the Weyrs and the temporary camp, first transporting food to the camp and R’skull’s prisoners to their homes, then moving the stolen pieces of ancient machines to crafthall and Weyr as T’ny and the Mastersmiths declare them safe. Some days S’teve and Libereth even leave for hours at a time, filling gaps in the Fort training roster or joining R’dy’s Wing to patrol the warmer climates for possible early Threadfall. But he never stays away for long. T’ny is still at the cavern, working and nursing Ferroth back to health, and so S’teve stays too. 

He tries not to push. To be nearby, helpful, caring, available, but not demanding. He doesn’t know, really, what T’ny wants anymore. He just knows that _he_ still wants T’ny. In his darker moments, staring up at the stars at night with nothing to keep his hands and thoughts busy, he wonders if he was only ever a replacement for Ferroth. If, now that he has his dragon, now that he’s filled that aching need, T’ny doesn’t have any use for a man out of time, fallen from _between_. It would certainly explain how busy T’ny is, every time S’teve sees him, and the distracted looks he sometimes gets when S’teve talks to him. Like he’d rather be doing something else.

He tells himself he’s being unfair. That T’ny _is_ busy. That he’s probably distracted by Ferroth and all the other demands on his time. It’s not about S’teve.

He wishes it was about him. Just a little bit. Anything. 

Libereth tells him he’s being ridiculous. It doesn’t help.

They’re down to a skeleton crew, just six of them left most days and planning to return to the Weyr for good soon when something finally happens. One evening when the Red Star shines bright on the horizon, T’ny makes a point of searching him out. S’teve had made sure to choose a hollow within Ferroth’s line of sight, but since he’s been doing that most evenings of late he doubts that’s what’s prompted T’ny’s visit. A suspicion that is quickly borne out. 

“I wanted to thank you again,” T’ny says without preamble. He doesn’t join S’teve, cross-legged in the sand next to a paltry collection of glows, but stands at the mouth of the hollow, backlit by the night sky and fiddling with something in his hands. His arm is still bandaged from his fall, but the dressing is smaller now. “For helping. I know I blamed you, earlier, and I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t your fault, what happened to us.”

“It wasn’t your fault either,” S’teve says. T’ny’s face twists, but S’teve can’t quite make out his expression. He’s not sure T’ny believes it. He wants to stand, to reach out and have T’ny take his hand and for everything between them to be right again. He wants to be able to reassure him with a touch. He puts his hands on his knees instead, squeezing lightly to make himself stay put. He’s not sure he’d be able to try again if he made the offer and T’ny walked away from him. Not when T’ny is only now voluntarily approaching him again, for anything. He doesn’t want to ruin this attempt at mended bridges.

“R’skull was a madman,” he says. “We had four Weyrs united against him in my time, and it still took us over a full turn to find a way to attack him directly. For months, the only mission I had was to find him. And then when I did, we both ended up here.” He looks away, staring across the sands. “Watching him build power here, too, watching him hurt even more people—” He shakes his head and looks to T’ny again. “I’m glad it’s over. We’ve got plenty of other things to worry about.”

He thinks T’ny might look faintly surprised, but when he steps further into the glowlight his Weyrleader expression is securely in place. All business.

“I wanted to give you this,” he says, holding out one hand. S’teve takes the little leather pouch and opens it. The thing inside is cool to the touch, smooth metal and glass. As he pulls it out he recognizes it. T’ny’s spyglass.

“I thought you might have a use for it. You mentioned studying the constellations, and tracking the stars, once, and it’s come in handy and I just thought you might like to have it. In case you ever need to see the stars up close. Or confirm where you are. In time.”

S’teve looks between the carefully polished copper and T’ny’s face, trying to find a connection. It’s a beautiful piece of work but he’s not sure why T’ny thinks he might need it. He’d be happier just stargazing together, if he’s honest. But T’ny looks very earnest in the glowlight, and the words die in his throat.

“Thank you,” he says instead. “I’ll . . . be sure to take good care of it.”

T’ny nods, not quite meeting his eyes. Then he sighs and steps back again.

“Jan is calling us all in,” he says. “Everyone’s healed enough to make the jump _between_ without too much stress. We’re planning to head back to the Weyr at dawn.”

“I’ll be there,” S’teve says. “Libereth’s getting tired of fish as it is.”

He can’t see T’ny’s expression.

“Tomorrow then,” T’ny says, finally. Like maybe he was going to say something else, but S’teve has no idea what.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Tomorrow.”

He doesn’t sleep well that night, or any of the nights following. The situation is only marginally different in the Weyr. He sees T’ny even less.

So he stays busy. He finishes the mural on his wall, dragons soaring over a Thread-free forest. He volunteers for extra flight duties. He and Libereth hunt fresh game for the injured list. He designs a new style of harness.

He waits, and waits, until he thinks he might just have to say something the next time he sees T’ny, even if they’re in the middle of the hall. Even if they shout at each other. At least then he’d know something new.

“T’ny mentioned you’d be leaving us soon,” Jarvis says one evening when he’s lurking in the ready room. “It’s a shame to see you go, but do let me know if you need anything for the journey.”

S’teve pauses with his soup bowl halfway to his mouth, trying to parse the words—not just for Jarvis’ meaning but for what T’ny is implying. 

He puts the bowl down.

“Thank you,” he says, “but . . . ” He struggles with the words for a moment. “Why does T’ny think I’m leaving?”

“He says now your mission’s done you’ve no reason to stay.” Jarvis’s attention is on his baking, a series of rolls taking shape under his hands. “That last part sounded a bit drastic to me, but I would understand if you missed it. I’m sure you have friends waiting for you. And family too.”

S’teve opens his mouth to protest, but a picture springs unbidden to his mind’s eye. High Reaches shines bright and warm on a summer afternoon. He can envision the exact length of the shadows of the seven peaks stretching across the Weyrbowl. The Weyr is busy with riders he’s known for five turns or more, dragons he can recognize at a glance. He can almost smell the freshly grilled fish and roasting squash. It’s clear enough for a jump _between_. 

And then it fades and he’s staring into his soup: salt-cured packtail and potato, with greens and onions from T’ny’s greenhouse. He takes a sip of it to dislodge the tightness rising in his throat.

“I really hadn’t thought about it.” It’s more talking to himself than speaking aloud, but Jarvis still hears him.

“Well, the Weyrwoman has made it clear you’re welcome to stay, if that’s what you wish.” He sets the rolls in the oven box and closes the door, wiping his hands briskly on his apron. “If you see H’gann, tell him he’s to have some soup and change the dressing on his hand before he goes to the Harper Hall this evening. The headwoman was very clear on that.”

S’teve nods his acknowledgment.

“And you make sure you eat too,” Jarvis says. “My mother always told me there was no good that could come of making decisions on an empty stomach.” Then he disappears back into the kitchens.

S’teve drinks his soup dutifully and tries to think through the sudden jumble of half-formed ideas and snatches of emotion filling his skull. That new sense of belonging he’d had when he Impressed Libereth, the way it had extended to the whole of his weyrling group, and then his Wing, and then the Weyr itself. Nights spent playing cards with R’bel and E’ric and D’gann or listening to Harper Carter’s songs. The pride in Nik’las’ face when S’teve had reported his scouting success against R’skull. And then against those thoughts, Fort’s colorful riot of halls, and T’ny’s smile after a hard-fought chess match; the joy in Jan’s laugh as she braided his hair before Fort’s Gather, the lightning-smell of thread in a morning flight’s chill, the curl of green leaves in the greenhouse. And rising through it like bubbles that burst as soon as they reached the surface, moments of anger. _This_ was why T’ny had been avoiding him? The idea that he would simply leave, after everything?

 _But can you blame him?_ Another part of him argues. _Can you say you won’t be going back?_

A softly ringing bell jolts him out of his stupor and he realizes his bowl is empty. One of the kitchen hands is putting the finished rolls in a basket. He takes one absently when she offers, but he can’t make himself eat it. Restless inaction gnaws at his ribs and guides his hands until the bread is little more than a pile of crumbs on the table. He sweeps them into the scraps bucket and makes his way back to the upper caverns, hoping a walk in the fresh air of the outer stairs will clear his head. It’s only after he’s relayed the message to H’gann that he realizes where his feet are taking him. 

It’s only natural, after all. Some decisions aren’t only up to him. He takes the last set of stairs to his own quarters at a brisk pace, almost running as he reaches the sunning ledge.

Libereth blinks at him from his place on the sleeping couch, his eyes reflecting faintly green in the glowlights.

 _What’s wrong?_ He shifts to let S’teve climb up to sit near his snout. _You’re upset._

S’teve strokes his dragon’s jaw.

_Do you want to go home?_

_Home?_ Libereth seems confused.

 _To High Reaches,_ S’teve amends, _with Nik’las and Mor’ta and R’bel._

Libereth tilts his head like he’s trying to get a better angle on S’teve.

 _There’s no Thread there_ , he says after a stretched moment. _And there’s too much fish_.

S’teve’s not sure what he expected or why he’s surprised. Without an immediate threat to their rider, dragons can always be depended on to think of their stomachs, mating and Thread with almost everything else far behind. Still, he’d rather be sure.

_You don’t miss it?_

_I like T’ny,_ Libereth says, _and Vanerith, and K’rol and Radeth and Ivoth and R’dy._ _I like our Weyr here._ It isn’t really an answer and S’teve can tell by the yellow in his eyes that Libereth is evading on purpose; something’s made him anxious. 

_Don’t you like T’ny?_ Libereth asks. _Don’t you like fighting Thread?_

 _Yeah._ S’teve sighs. _Yeah, I do._

It’s only later, after he’s rubbed and oiled Libereth’s hide and made sure the scratch on his side is still closed and healing that he realizes Libereth might have been worrying about a threat to them both, after all. The trip through time, across five hundred turns, is not without risk. Just the thought of being _between_ for so long is enough to make him shiver.

He doesn’t remember his dreams the next morning, but he wakes unsettled. Libereth is irritable too, complaining of too-scratchy sand and his wound itching and wanting to stretch his wings. When a Thread patrol over Ruatha asks for additional riders halfway through their flight, S’teve volunteers. K’tess is happy to have him, even puts him in charge of a string of blues and greens, and they follow him seamlessly.

When the Wing jumps back to the Weyr afterward, Libereth takes the bowl at a lazy, circling glide. After the second pass it becomes obvious he’s eying the herdbeast pens and S’teve gives in. Libereth eats a goat—messily—and makes a show of splashing around in the lake until S’teve and the eager weyrbrats who’d run out to help are all soaked to the skin and shivering in the crisp afternoon chill.

And it feels right. S’teve feels . . . at peace. Like this is what he’s supposed to be doing, and where he’s supposed to be doing it.

He makes sure Libereth and the children get dried off and warmed up, changes his clothes, rebraids his hair twice, and spends more time pacing and staring into his little brass signaling mirror than he can really justify. Finally, as the first dinner gong sounds, he goes looking for T’ny. There’s just one more thing he needs to know.

T’ny is in the Weyrleader’s quarters, working over Ferroth’s tattered flight straps while his dragon sleeps. He looks up when S’teve enters. There’s just a flicker of surprise on his face before his social mask slides into place: the Weyrleader, ready to work.

“Did you need something?” he asks.

“Just wanted to talk.” S’teve strides closer, close enough he doesn’t feel quite so much like a weyrling on review.

T’ny just nods. S’teve tries to get a better sense of his mood by watching Ferroth but the dragon appears to be sleeping soundly. The words he’s been repeating to himself for the past hour have slipped away. 

They pass a moment in silence. Then another. S’teve fidgets.

T’ny speaks.

“Is this about you going back to High Reaches?”

“I was thinking about that,” S’teve admits. “But there’s really no reason I can’t stay. All I have to look forward to there is the spring Games. And it feels a bit like cheating to just opt out of fighting Thread when I know it’s falling.”

T’ny’s expression twitches.

“No one would blame you,” he says in a distant sort of tone. “R’skull did have a point in trying to attack the Red Star, even if he went about it in a horrible way. I don’t think anyone is really looking forward to another forty turns of this, as essential as it is.”

“I am,” S’teve says. He steps closer. “Especially if it means another forty turns here, with you.”

There’s a flash of naked longing in T’ny’s eyes at that, but then he twists away, refocuses on the tattered leather of Ferroth’s harness.

“You shouldn’t stay for me,” T’ny says. “Not—” He shakes his head, some of his hair coming loose from its tie. “We already know I don’t leave much of a mark on the future. Maybe I die next winter, or the turn after that. Maybe I finally get myself killed in another fall and everything I’ve ever made is broken down for parts.”

S’teve bites back the urge to repeat himself, yet again. To reiterate that just because he, a lone hold-born blue rider doesn’t know something doesn’t mean no trace of it exists. That’s not the conversation he wants to have now. 

“I think Ferroth might object to you talking that way,” he says instead. “I know I do.”

T’ny sighs and Ferroth shifts around to shove his snout as close to his rider as possible, like saying his name was enough to wake him. S’teve drags another stool into place and starts working on a scuffed piece of harness while they hold a silent conversation, doing his best to fade into the background without actually leaving. He’s managed to salvage three buckles and a length of wool padding by the time Ferroth returns to his doze.

“You still shouldn’t stay for me.” T’ny picks up his work again. S’teve watches their hands move together for a moment, testing leather and linkages without needing to speak about it.

“I want to.” He keeps his eyes on the leather. “I want a future that has you in it, whatever else it looks like.”

He could mention that the future, his original future, will always be there, just as he left it, if he wants to make the journey. He could tell T’ny how much that journey scares him—the manifestation of nightmares he still has some nights, the frozen dark of _between_ claiming him forever. He could detail everything he’s learned the past few months: the place he has here, the home T’ny has made for him. The clean simplicity of flying Thread instead of mock duels and petty arguments with fellow riders over the sorts of gripes that can’t survive a Pass. The hope he has just talking to T’ny some nights, that one man really can make the whole of Pern better. He settles for simplicity.

“This is where I want to be. Whether you want me or not.” He looks up and tries for a grin, but he’s not sure how it comes out. “I do hope you want me though. That would definitely be better.”

T’ny laughs at that. A real laugh, with a smile like S’teve hasn’t seen since they danced together under twilight glows.

“I want you,” T’ny says. “Believe me. _Wanting_ you was never in question.”

“Good.”

S’teve scoots his stool closer and leans in to kiss him, and T’ny meets him halfway. It starts slow, gentle—S’teve only means to reconnect, after the strangeness of the last few weeks, to reaffirm his intentions—but T’ny slides a hand into his hair and kisses him harder, and S’teve lets himself slip over into heat and yearning.

When T’ny breaks away in response to a grumble and shift from Ferroth, S’teve finds himself clutching white-knuckled at the rim of his stool with one hand, the other gripping T’ny’s shirt at the collar.

T’ny is still smiling, a hint of wonder to it.

“Ferroth says we’re disturbing his nap,” he says, half on a laugh.

 _I was napping too_ , Libereth notes, _but I don’t mind. You’re more fun when you’re relaxed._

 _You could’ve just kept quiet then,_ S’teve tells him. Libereth hums happily at him.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to bother Ferroth,” he says aloud. He eases himself away, but he takes T’ny’s hand as they part and twines their fingers together. “I can wait,” he tells T’ny, and it feels like a promise. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Ferroth snorts, but [T’ny just leans in again, even closer than before, until he’s resting his head against S’teve’s shoulder.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16794817/chapters/39418567#workskin)

“Thank you,” he says, his beard tickling S’teve’s neck. S’teve holds him as gently as he can. He’s not certain he could speak if he tried.

 _Home?_ Libereth asks, sleepily hopeful.

 _Yeah,_ S’teve tells him. _Home._

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to check out the artists! kaitovsheiji's art is here on deviantart: [The Dance](https://www.deviantart.com/kaitovsheiji/art/The-dance-774767902) | [Final Fight](https://www.deviantart.com/kaitovsheiji/art/Final-fight-774767977) or [ here in one post on tumblr](http://kaitovsheiji.tumblr.com/post/180664279178/my-art-for-this-years-cap-im-bigbang-i-had-the). phoenixmetaphor's art [ is here on AO3 (click through both chapters to see all of it!),](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16794817/chapters/39418546) or [here on tumblr](http://phoenixmetaphor.tumblr.com/post/180669534017/art-for-runningondreams-and-their-hearts-are).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[BB Art] Reunion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16794817) by [phoenixmetaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixmetaphor/pseuds/phoenixmetaphor)




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